Scientist King
by Hedgewitchery
Summary: Daine, a vet, Numair, a professor, and Alanna, a doctor and retired soldier, go to a bioterrorism conference. Chaos ensues. Fluff, plot, modern AU. Inspired by The Immortals, with whose timeline I play fast and loose. 2006 Circle of Heroes Award nominee
1. Prologue

**A/N:** This is a weird fic. It's inspired by the Immortals Quartet and by Sonnet Lacewing's brilliant companion pieces (_Two Weeks in Carthak_, etc.), but has a modern setting. Here's the prologue. Tell me what you think.

**Disclaimer**: I didn't invent any of these people, but I do weird things to them for the purposes of this story. Don't sue, please.

**Prologue**

_In the dream he is there again, there in the biochemistry lab at Cairo University with Ozorne and Tristan—fellow students whom, until this moment, he has considered his friends. Ozorne has summoned Tristan and Arram to witness some unusually impressive experiment, but hasn't told them what's in store._

_Had Arram known, he would have done nearly anything to evade the summons._

_Along a lab bench at the back of the room are arrayed a variety of small animals—white mice, gerbils, a rabbit, white rats, a guinea pig—not caged but, to Arram's great surprise, frozen in place, noses quivering, tails twitching, but otherwise immobile._

"_Fantastic! What's holding them there?" Tristan asks._

_Ozorne smiles widely. Not for the first time, Arram detects something deeply unpleasant in that smile. "Fear," he says._

_It is at this point that the nineteen-year-old Arram Draper, Cairo University's youngest ever PhD candidate, seriously considers fleeing the room and calling the university police. The much older and wiser Numair Salmalín, whom he also is at this moment, has regretted not doing so ever since._

_Arram–Numair has looked away for a moment, and when he turns back Ozorne's way, the worst horror of the nightmare has begun: the lab bench has grown much larger, and on it, neatly aligned with the frightened animals and dwarfing them both in size and in fear, is Daine._

His_ Daine._

_He knows what is coming—he has dreamed the same dream dozens of times—but, as always, is powerless to stop it._

"_This is just the beginning," Ozorne is saying happily. "It's easy to hold them there, but I can do so much more …"_

_The rabbit's head is the first to explode. Arram–Numair shouts an inarticulate protest, and the invisibly prisoned dream-Daine shrieks in agony._

_He closes his eyes. It is useless; the scene continues to play itself out on the inside of his eyelids._

"_Fear is just another chemical. Don't you see? If you could mass-produce it, you'd never need any other weapon …"_

_The animals obey commands; they run improvised mazes unimaginably fast; they all, ultimately, die of their manufactured fear._

_Only Daine is left._

_Finally Arram–Numair succeeds in taking some action beyond hoarsely shouted protest; he steps (his feet heavy as concrete blocks) toward Ozorne, raises a hand (it is like pulling against invisible chains), and strikes him._

_This, too, is useless. _

_She is already dead._


	2. 1: Reception

**A/N: **I have taken considerable liberties, here, with the Royal (Dick) School of Veterinary Studies, which does exist and is an ancient and honourable part of the University of Edinburgh, but does not, so far as I know, actually have its own riding stables (it does have a farm and an Equine Hospital, though). Also, obviously, Tamora Pierce's characters don't teach at Edinburgh ;). I have also invented, for the purposes of this story, an obscure Middle Eastern country of which a certain person we all know and hate is absolute monarch. It is a composite of Carthak and assorted real countries, but does not represent any of them directly. **Update A/N: fixing some typos and other fiddly things.**

**Disclaimer: **Tamora Pierce invented them; I am just using them for my own bizarre purposes.

**1: Reception**

Daine had never learned to like cocktail receptions. She didn't like to drink much at parties, but nor did she enjoy fending off waiters with trays of drinks. It was awkward, too, to query every offered _hors d'oeuvre_—she had stopped eating meat years ago, but still felt apologetic about her dietary quirks around people she didn't know. This party, at least, featured plenty of non-alcoholic beverages.

But then there was the issue of clothing. Daine's normal working attire ran to khaki trousers and t-shirts; when she wanted to look particularly smart, she wore a suit (the only one she owned, a sober black outfit of pleated-front trousers and single-breasted jacket) and blouse. Parties like this one required considerably more effort, and it always seemed to Daine that her efforts were not entirely successful.

Still, she looked all right this time, she knew. Numair had told her as much, by an admiring look and a low, inviting whistle, when he stepped out of the shower in their hotel room to find her nervously fussing at her hair in front of the bathroom mirror.

Not that he'd said anything directly. "You'll have to beat them off with a stick, love," was what he'd said, leaning down—himself clad only in a skimpy hotel towel—to kiss the back of her neck.

In fact, at the moment she was doing nothing of the sort—though Numair, halfway across the large and elegantly appointed reception room, was surrounded by a gaggle of blonde Scandinavian graduate students (at least, they looked too young to be more than post-docs), many of whom would no doubt need some encouragement to move on to other interlocutors. Daine smiled to herself as she saw him raise his left hand to flip his long black hair out of his eyes—a very natural gesture, but also exactly suited to display his wedding ring. _Look all you like, ladies. When this torture session is over, _I_ get to take him home._

Nursing her glass of mineral water, she leaned on a wall and surveyed the room. It was very grand indeed; this was almost certainly the most elegant hotel she had ever stayed in, and this seemed to be the grandest room in it. There was gilding on the elaborately curlicued ceiling, gilded bas-relief decoration on the walls, gilded Moorish-looking screens in the corners to hide the serving stations. Wild arrangements of exotic tropical flowers sat here and there on gleaming credenzas and occasional tables. _Hiring this place for the evening must have cost the university a small fortune_, Daine thought. _And the food alone …_

A deeply tanned face entered her field of vision and a light tenor voice said, "Dr Sarrasri, I presume?"

She turned to see a tallish man of about her own age smiling at her and trying to read the conference badge absurdly pinned to her modestly cut, but clinging, blue dress, which read "Veralidaine Sarrasri, BVM&S, MRCVS, Royal (Dick) School of Veterinary Studies & Edinburgh Zoo."

"Just Daine, please," she said, returning the smile and holding out her right hand. Surprisingly, he took it in his and raised it briefly to his lips. He was dressed simply, in a fawn suit, crisp white linen shirt and subtly patterned tie, but even Daine could see that his clothes were—by her standards—appallingly expensive. She looked for his badge, but found he wasn't wearing one, which could only mean …

"Your Highness," she said, trying to decide whether she ought to curtsey. Or bow. Or … something.

"Please don't," said Crown Prince Kaddar. "I'm trying to blend in."

* * *

"_You don't want to be Onua's assistant all your life, do you?" Numair asks her. He is leaning over the door of the box stall where she is grooming the Dick School's newest equine acquisition, a large, raw-boned bay gelding with a mare's cunning and a stallion's temper. He is gentle with Daine but vicious with anyone else, and Onua's theory is that Daine can tame him—and teach the Equine Medicine students something about horse behaviour in the process._

"_Well …" she feels shy, suddenly, with this man whom she now knows to be a world-renowned scholar, holder of chairs in two of Edinburgh's most prestigious scientific schools, not to mention two doctoral degrees. She concentrates on the safe territory of her curry-comb and the tall horse's withers._

"_What is it?" he prompts her gently. _

"_You'll think it silly," she says._

"_Try me."_

"_I'd really like … I'd like to be able to help animals when they're sick or hurt. Not just do first aid, I mean, but really make them better. And … and I'd like to work with wild animals, not just cats and dogs and cows and things…"_

_He smiles, though she doesn't see it. "You want to be a vet."_

_A nod._

"_You're in a good place for it," he points out._

"_But … you need all sorts of A-levels, and I haven't got any," she protests. "Even my O-levels weren't very good."_

"_Why not?"_

"_Why not, what?"_

"_Why weren't your O-levels very good?"_

_She shrugs, embarrassed. "I didn't like school very much, in Snowsdale. People were … not very kind to me. And my teachers all thought I was stupid. You know – stupid mother, stupid—"_

"_You're not in Snowsdale now."_

"_Yes, but … Onua pays me well, for what I'm doing, but not well enough to afford—"_

"_I could teach you," Numair offers._

_This is so unexpected that she stops her work to stare at him. The horse whuffles in protest until the curry-comb begins moving again._

"_I can't pay you."_

"_We could trade. You could teach me … archery, and riding. I'm a terrible horseman. You could help me improve."_

"_You're a biochemist."_

"_And a wildlife biologist," he reminds her. "But mainly, your humble servant" (he bows extravagantly, and she giggles) "is an autodidact. That means 'self-teacher,'" he adds. "Most of what I know, I've learned on my own. That means I can learn along with you, and I can help you learn to … well, to learn on_ your _own. And then we can tackle the admissions office together, you and Onua and I. What do you say?"_

_She looks up at him now, finally, her blue-grey eyes shining. "When can we start?" she asks._

* * *

"It's a great honour to have you here," Prince Kaddar was saying.

"Who—me?" Daine said incredulously. "Oh—you meant the conference." She felt her face grow warm and blessed the not-too-bright lighting.

"Well, yes," he said, smiling, "but I did mean you particularly, in fact." His English was elegant and flawless, with just the subtlest hint of a pleasant accent (pleasant, Daine belatedly realized, because it reminded her of Numair's even subtler one). "We've followed your career with considerable interest."

"'We' being…"

"Ah, well, some of us at the university here—I did my undergraduate work there, you know, though I'm at Cairo now—and also, er, my uncle. He has an impressive royal zoo, as you may be aware, and also a personal aviary that he's very fond of. I've shared with him several of your papers on animal behaviour …"

"I'm … very flattered," Daine said. She was finding herself awkward and tongue-tied in the presence of this charming and, presumably, very powerful man. _If he's like this, what must his uncle be like?_ Where was Numair when you needed him, drat it? Or even Alanna, or—what was his name—Numair's thesis advisor?

"Doct—I'm sorry, Daine, have you met Professor Reed?" she heard her companion say.

Yes, that was it—Lindhall Reed. "I have, actually," she said, turning to smile at the newcomer. "It's lovely to see you again, Professor."

The tall, grey-bearded man returned her smile. He wore a badge reading "Lindhall Reed, PhD, School of Botany and Zoology, Cairo University." "The pleasure's mine, my dear. We were introduced earlier by another of my students," he added, by way of explanation to the Prince. "Well, a former student, rather."

"Oh?" Kaddar inquired—politely but, it seemed to Daine, without genuine interest.

Something seemed to occur to Professor Reed. "As a matter of fact, Kaddar, you ought to meet him as well as Dr Sarrasri—Daine," he corrected himself. "I'm sure the two of you could have some very productive discussions."

He began to look around him, vaguely. Daine touched his arm. "He's over there," she said, nodding in Numair's direction. "Amidst all the blonde beauties."

Lindhall Reed chuckled. "I should have known," he said. "If you'll excuse me for a moment …?"

"You're a graduate student, I think you said?" Daine asked, after a moment. "What's your field?"

She had chosen her question well: the prince's face lit up, and he answered enthusiastically. "I began with biochemistry," he said, "but that's really my uncle's interest, not mine. I dabbled in zoology also. But I'm back now to what really interests me …" His voice trailed off; he was looking straight at her, but appeared distracted.

"Not zoology, then?" Daine prompted, puzzled.

"Well—that is—" he began. "I am interested in animals, of course. But what really fascinates me—" he was warming to his topic again—"is botany. Desert plants in particular, the survival mechanisms they've evolved, and of course developing drought-resistant strains of crop plants."

"That sounds a very useful field of research," Daine said, nodding. She approved of rulers, and future rulers, who took an interest in the well-being of their countries.

"I was hoping," Kaddar said, now wearing a bashful expression that Daine found utterly inexplicable, "that while you are here you might allow me to show you some of the local sights. And my uncle, as you may know, is anxious to have your opinion on the behaviour and health of some of his birds."

Daine nodded again; she was back to feeling puzzled. "I'd like that very much," she said, "though I don't know that I'll have much free time for sight-seeing—the conference timetable is very full, you see." He was looking at her very oddly. "It's a great honour to be offered a personal tour—"

"Daine! _There_ you are!" said a woman's voice, as a small but strong hand clapped Daine on the shoulder. She turned and smiled, this time with profound relief. "Hello, Alanna."

The short, stocky redhead was rather startlingly attired in a fitted, calf-length violet silk dress; the conference badge pinned precariously to the shoulder of this garment, just where one might attach a corsage, read "Lt.-Col. Alanna Trebond-Cooper, FRCP, MSP, School of Clinical Sciences & Community Health, University of Edinburgh."

"Your High—er—Kaddar, have you met Dr Cooper?"

* * *

Prince Kaddar seemed to find Alanna easier than Daine to talk to; within minutes the two of them, with very little input from Daine, were deep in a spirited discussion of the difficulties of enforcing new immunization schemes.

"One thing about immunizing animals," Daine remarked, "you can always sedate them if they won't listen to reason."

"Listen to the girl, Lindhall," said a mocking baritone voice somewhere above and behind her. "I don't believe she's ever had to sedate an animal in her life."

Was it her imagination that there was something possessive in the touch of the large, warm hand on her shoulder?

"My wife," Numair went on, now addressing the prince, "will no doubt try to convince you that she's a perfectly ordinary zoo vet. Believe me when I tell you she's nothing of the kind."

_Well, I'm not about to tell any of these people that I'm some sort of animal psychic. I have enough trouble explaining that sort of thing at home._

About to give her husband an irritated look, she caught Kaddar frankly staring at them and, instead, reached up to cover Numair's hand with her own. "My husband finds it amusing to exaggerate my talents," she said, her gently mocking tone exactly matching his.

"Kaddar," Lindhall Reed interjected smoothly, "allow me to introduce Professor Numair Salmalín of the University of Edinburgh. You've read some of his work, I think? Ar—Numair, his Highness, Crown Prince Kaddar Iliniat."

The two men shook hands—warily, so it seemed to Daine. The prince still looked a bit shell-shocked.

Lindhall and Numair steered the conversation toward the latest fossil discoveries in the Rift Valley, a topic that interested Daine, and apparently Kaddar, moderately but Alanna not at all. Daine took the opportunity to quietly invite the older woman to help her search for the ladies' toilet.

* * *

"Your husband has quite a possessive streak, hasn't he?" Alanna chuckled as soon as they were out of earshot.

_So it wasn't my imagination_. "He's not like that usually," Daine replied. "He must have eaten something that disagreed with him. Or maybe he's just feeling the heat."

Alanna shot her young friend a shrewd look. "The heat he's feeling is your royal friend's eyes on you," she said.

"_What?_" Daine sputtered. "I hardly know the man, Alanna. I met him less than an hour ago. Surely Numair doesn't think—"

"What he's thinking, if I'm any judge," said Alanna, "is that that young man's interest in you is _not_ entirely intellectual. You hadn't told him you're married, had you?"

Daine thought about it. "No," she said, "I suppose I hadn't. I don't make a habit of announcing my conjugal status to everyone I meet," she added defensively. "It didn't come up."

Alanna raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't notice that he was trying his best to flirt with you?"

"Well …" Daine fidgeted with her wedding band. "I did think he was behaving a bit … oddly. He offered to squire me round the local sights—that was certainly unexpected. But I'm sure I was behaving oddly as well. I don't meet foreign royalty every day, you know, the way _some people_ do."

This drew a snort. "Well, clearly the prince is smitten," said Alanna decisively. "If he's got any sense, though, he'll try to get over it before the next time he bumps into Professor Salmalín."

"I can look after myself, you know," Daine retorted, nettled. "I was archery champion of Yorkshire three years running, and I work with dangerous animals for a living. He needn't be so—so _protective._"

Alanna laughed. "I was on active duty in Northern Ireland _and_ the Falklands, lass," she said, "but that doesn't stop _my_ husband threatening dire retribution when someone looks at me cross-eyed. It's what men do. Reminds us, in case we didn't know, that they aren't as highly evolved as they claim."


	3. 2: PostMortem

**A/N: **This chapter is relatively short, because for plot reasons it has to end in a certain place. This will become clear in the next chapter, which I think should be ready for prime time tomorrow-ish. After that there will be a brief hiatus while I cope with parents visiting from out of the country! **Update:** Just fixing a couple of typos I noticed, and putting in proper breaks.

**Disclaimer:** I cannot take credit for inventing Daine, Numair, or anyone else whose name you recognize as belonging to Tamora Pierce. I do, however, accept responsibility for kidnapping them from Tortall and making them live in the twentieth-century United Kingdom. Please nobody sue.

**

* * *

2: Post-Mortem**

"I _hate_ those things," Daine said, limping into the hotel room and kicking off her detested high-heeled sandals.

"My poor little vetkin," said Numair, squeezing her shoulders in sympathy. "I forget how much you dislike pomp and circumstance."

"It's so exhausting, and such a waste of the university's money, and all the food is booby-trapped, and nobody accomplishes anything at all." She flung herself onto the hotel-room sofa.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," said her husband. He had shed shoes and jacket and tie and was padding around the room in his stocking feet, drawing curtains and pouring glasses of iced water. "I accomplished something rather important, I think."

Daine accepted one of the glasses and pressed it to her forehead gratefully; the reception, with its glitter and noise, had given her a raging headache. "Do tell," she said, and set about draining her glass.

"Well," said Numair, sitting beside her on the sofa and stretching a long arm behind her shoulders, "For one thing, I believe I convinced a certain member of the local royal family to set his romantic sights on a different object."

"You and Alanna," Daine sighed. "Doesn't either of you ever think of anything else?"

"You forget, love, I've spent at least the last five years lusting after you myself. I'm well able to recognize the signs." His hands, delicate despite their size, gently massaged her pounding temples.

"That's lovely, thanks. And you're daft. I'm sure _his highness_ was only making conversation." Daine yawned hugely. "Talking of royalty, what about the King? Wasn't he supposed to make an appearance?"

Numair frowned. "No," he said. "Not this time. There's another of these things tomorrow night, a banquet at the royal palace, black tie _et al., _for a select few guests—including Alanna, and you, and me." Daine goggled. "I did tell you about this—it's on the programme. He'll be at that one, of course. I'm not sure to what we owe the singular honour of such an invitation. Me especially," he added.

"Why you especially?" She knew he had a history among these people, but it wasn't something he talked about often, or very clearly—what she mostly knew was that his memories of this place were not happy ones.

He shrugged. "Some other time."

Daine looked at him closely; he looked tired and rather sad. "Did you find anything to eat in that madhouse?" she asked him. "I know you aren't much for posh nibbles after you've been traveling…"

He smiled at her gratefully. "It's all right," he said. "Those arrowroot biscuits you packed for me? I had some in the pocket of my jacket."

"Clever," she acknowledged. "I wish I'd thought of that."

* * *

"One thing I do rather like about travelling," Numair remarked, surveying their luxurious accommodations from the comfort of the large bed. "This is so much more elegant than our usual digs." 

"You mean it's so much _tidier_," Daine countered. "No—well—not so many stacks of books and journal preprints scattered around the place."

"Much less cat and dog fur."

"Only two laptop flexes to trip over—"

"No dog bikkies trodden into the carpet—"

"No experiments running in the kitchen—"

"No rescued hedgehogs cowering in the downstairs loo—"

"We need a cleaner," Daine laughed. They had been having this conversation, or variations thereof, for most of their relationship, and its familiarity was comforting after the evening's stress.

"We'd never find one. Remember what happened to the last one?"

"Of course I don't, Numair. It was before I ever met you."

He frowned. "Yes, you're right. I'd quite forgotten. Well, it's a tragic story," he went on. "I'd spent nearly a fortnight culturing _Drosophila melanogaster_ in the dining-room, trying to discover whether females with red eyes preferred brown-eyed or red-eyed or purple-eyed males—"

"Why, I can't think," Daine interjected, "when you've got a perfectly lovely lab at the uni to work in."

"Because," Numair explained patiently, "that lab is intended for the work I'm _paid_ to do, not for experiments I conduct for my own—well, fun, I suppose." He grinned at her. "Same reason you keep your rescued beasties in our bath rather than in _your_ lab. At any rate, just as I was beginning to get somewhere, in came the cleaner and—and—"

"She cleaned up the fruit flies," Daine guessed. "You can't blame her, Numair. You ought to've got someone from the uni cleaning staff if you wanted a cleaner who'd tolerate flies in the dining-room."

"_You_ tolerate that sort of thing remarkably well, vetkin," he pointed out.

"Very true. But then, I'm nearly as bad a housekeeper as you are, so you might say I make things worse rather than better." Daine was grinning. In fact, they were both perfectly happy with their cluttered, haphazardly furnished, animal-fur-covered old farmhouse on the outskirts of Edinburgh, and with the assortment of dogs, cats, and rescued wildlife with which they habitually shared it. A room like this—well, let her and Numair live in it a week or two and it would end up as chaotic as their own home.

All the same, she couldn't deny that it was very nice, once in a while, to be somewhere so tidy, and posh, and—well—private.

"It's an awfully nice, big bed," she murmured speculatively, snuggling against his side. "With no dogs or cats in it."

"It is that." Numair bent his head to nuzzle her hair; his arm tightened around her shoulders, pulling her close.

"My head doesn't ache as much as it did …"

"I'm delighted to hear it, love." Long fingers slid under her chin and raised her face to his. The gentle mockery was gone from his dark eyes; they held her gaze, smouldering with desire, as he brought his mouth down to hers.

She lost herself in the kiss, clinging to him as if afraid of drowning.

* * *

He woke her in the small hours, jerking upright and shouting, in a voice ragged with fear and rage, something she couldn't decipher. 

"Numair!" she tugged on his arm, trying to yank him back to reality. "Numair, wake up! It's all right—you're safe—I'm here."

He blinked in confusion—rubbed his eyes—turned his head to look down at her. He was sweating, his dark face paler than it ought to be in the ghostly light of the bedside alarm-clock.

She sat up on her knees and put her arms around him, feeling the rapid thudding of his heart against her chest.

"Tell me," she urged him gently.

Face buried against her neck, he shook his head.

"'Mair, sweetheart, be reasonable," she coaxed, stroking his damp hair. "It's eating you alive. You're having these dreams every night, now. It'll help to talk about it—you taught me that yourself, remember?"

"I know it," he said. "And you ought to know everything. You _need _to know, now we're here, in case … just in case. It's just—you must remember—it's so bloody hard to begin."

_So hard to begin._

Yes, she remembered. Certainly she remembered.

_

* * *

_

_On the summer day when Daine, a sixteen-year-old school leaver of no very great distinction apart from what she calls "a way with animals," comes home from a day out on the fells to find her grandfather and her mother, the local midwife, beaten and murdered by armed robbers, her life begins a rapid descent into misery and chaos. At once some in the village—Snowsdale, high in the Yorkshire Dales, a half-forgotten farming community bypassed by many of the trends of recent decades, including a decline in the stigma of unwed motherhood and an influx of immigrants from other lands—accuse her of complicity. Angry and desperate, she tries to track the culprits down herself; she is seen lurking in unsavoury places; the local publican throws her out more than once when her increasingly strident interrogations of travellers, and even her neighbours, threaten the peace of his house. Once the district police have identified and arrested the perpetrators, who are found to be suspects also in a string of similar crimes across the district and who deny all knowledge of Daine's existence, the whispers quiet a little; but by that time Daine has begun to lose touch with reality._

_The day she begins to hear animals talking to her, she knows she has to go away before things get worse. Packing those few possessions she values in the saddlebags of her bicycle, she sets her face to the north (for no better reason than because it feels right at that moment) and pedals resolutely away from Snowsdale and all its works._

_She meets Onua first—Onua Chamtong, who runs the Dick School's stables, on a walking holiday in the Dales National Park. Onua needs a new assistant, someone who knows horses and can ride a bit. Daine doesn't dare tell Onua about the voices in her head, but she does sense a certain kinship in this gruff, stocky,_ foreign _woman and eventually feels safe enough to tell her other things she'd never planned to admit. The fate of her family. The fact that she has grown up lonely and shunned, daughter of an unmarried local farmer's daughter and an unknown, much-maligned father._

_They run across Onua's friend Numair by happenstance, too, but it is a good thing for him that they do; he has got himself into a scrape surely only he could have managed, bike mangled, one wrist broken, feverish and out of provisions. Daine handles the first aid, while Onua goes for help on Daine's bike and comes back with the local doctor in his Land Rover. Two days later Numair, plaster cast and all, insists on joining them for the rest of the journey. He sees the desolation behind Daine's gruffly practical shell, and clowns extravagantly to make her laugh; when she is consumed with guilt for enjoying herself with her family not yet cold in their graves, he gently reminds her that she need not bury herself with them. It is the most beautiful, and also the most appalling, period of Daine's life thus far._

_By the time term starts in Edinburgh, Daine is happily ensconced in her position as Onua's assistant and the two of them are her fast friends. She finds the big city both terrible and wonderful, enlightening and dislocating, liberating and strange. Through Onua and Numair she meets most of the people whom, though they are so intimidating at first, she will soon consider her closest friends._

_But it takes her much longer to tell them about the voices._

_She will later wonder whether this—the moment when, finally, seated in front of the fireplace in Onua's flat, staring into the flames because she is too afraid to meet their eyes, she tells them everything, and Onua hugs her and Numair, on her other side, assures her that she is not mad, only unusually perceptive—was the beginning of her falling in love with him. After much thought, she will decide that it was earlier still._

_

* * *

So hard to begin._

"Maybe," Daine suggested, ever practical, "you could begin with the reason your thesis advisor kept calling you by someone else's name."


	4. 3: Confession

**A/N: **big technical breakthrough here: I finally noticed there's a way to put in one of those nifty break codes. So now I'm using them. I'm so proud :)

Thanks everyone (especially BBKN-13!) for the positive reviews. You're so kind! I am normally really wary of "modern" fics, also, and it would never have occurred to me to try to write one, only this scene of Daine feeling awkward at a cocktail party formed itself in my head and wouldn't go away until I wrote it down ... and once I wrote down that part, more parts started to grow from it. I'm hoping I can go somewhere interesting and believable with it.

And now, without further ado, chapter 3!

* * *

**3: Confession**

"Because it's _my_ name," Numair said. "Well, it _was_ my name. When I was Lindhall's student, my name was Arram Draper."

She looked at him expectantly, knowing better than to interrupt.

"I don't even know how far back to go," he said, helplessly. "Where do I begin?"

"At the beginning, 'Mair." Daine's voice was gentle and patient; she remembered feeling what he must be feeling now, the confusion, the stifling anxiety, the humiliation. "Begin at the beginning."

* * *

_At the beginning. Where the hell is the beginning?_

_Relax, Numair. This isn't an interrogation. This is your wife, who loves you._

_For a little longer, at least._

"I was born in Beirut," he said, finally. He did not meet her eyes; he knew she didn't expect it. "I've told you that much, haven't I? My father was a Canadian soldier, and somehow managed to be sent to Lebanon as a _casque bleue—_a UN peacekeeper." A mirthless laugh. "Hard to think of anyone less suited to keeping peace. I suppose the Canadians were glad to be rid of him. He met my mother, and when he got his discharge he married her and stayed there. It was difficult for them—for my mother especially. My father was thicker skinned, I suppose, or possibly he was just too pissed most of the time to notice that they were poor and that people shunned my mother for marrying an American. No, I know he wasn't," he added, forestalling her question, "but people in our neighbourhood didn't make those distinctions.

"They had three children. My elder brothers wanted to be soldiers like my father. Amin joined the Syrian army and got himself killed on the Golan Heights. Talal ran away at sixteen to join Hezbollah, of all things, and … well, he never came home, at any rate. Who knows. And then they had me. My sister, Mira …" he swallowed hard. "During the war she was killed while playing in the street. A 'friendly fire' incident. I don't think my mother ever recovered from that, really. All she'd ever wanted was fine, strong sons and modest, pretty daughters. And what does she finish up with, instead? Little, skinny, clumsy Arram, the boy the other boys pummel every bloody day because he won't hit back. She loved me, of course she did, but it wasn't the same.

"You can probably imagine what a disappointment I was to my father. I wasn't interested in target shooting or learning to fight, unless I could pretend to be Robin Hood rescuing Maid Marian or some sort of heroic knight-errant. I taught myself to read when I was three, and by the time I was six, every time I ran away from home my mother knew she'd find me at the library. Such as it was." A rueful grimace. "When I was a little boy and my father told me war stories, I covered my ears and cried, or just ran away. He liked to tell stories that … well, they were very _detailed_. I went … they sent me away to school when I was ten. The Irish Christian Brothers—have you heard of them?"

She nodded.

"Talking of pummelling—it was their primary teaching methodology, if you will." Another dry, mirthless chuckle. "But they were good to me, in their way. That school was my first introduction to the idea of 'book-learning' as a worthwhile ambition in itself, rather than simply the consolation you turn to when you've been thrashed too many times to show your face outside for a few days."

Daine squeezed his hand silently.

"I learned better English than my father's. I learned Latin, I learned proper French. I read ahead of my year, and then ahead of the next year. I saved my pocket money for months and bought a chemistry set imported from England, and I did experiments during prep time, till I blew something up and the housemaster found out. Finally the headmaster wrote his friend in Cairo, who spoke to his friend at the university, who spoke to _his_ friend who was head of the Chemistry Department, who agreed to make an exception to their admission rules, and there I was …

"Cairo wasn't a particularly good university, or particularly anything except, well, Egyptian. I'd have been much better off, in many ways, had I been able somehow to get out of the Middle East altogether and go to Europe or America. But two things about it were wonderful, utopian. Nobody knew who I was, so I could be _whoever I wanted_—a brilliant, dashing young genius, for example." A rueful smile at the folly of youth. "I could make friends. I could flirt with girls. Well—" Numair was nothing if not strictly accurate. "I could _imagine_ flirting with girls. And Lindhall Reed taught there. He was the first person, I think, whom I genuinely admired. There seemed to be no 'dark side' to Lindhall—he didn't drink too much, or beat his wife, or say ugly things about people behind their backs. He was—well, it sounds maudlin and absurd, but he was the father I'd imagined having, the one who would be proud of me instead of ashamed, who would understand the sorts of things I was passionate about, instead of dismissing them. Dismissing _me._ It was—it was heavenly, vetkin. For a little while.

"I made friends, as I said. That is, I thought of them as friends then. They were all older than I was—I was only fourteen when I arrived in Cairo. God, it's more than twenty years ago. No wonder I feel so ancient." He drew a deep, shuddering breath, and Daine squeezed his hand again and brought it up to her cheek. "One of them was the man who's asked us round to dinner tomorrow—Ozorne Tasikhe."

Her sharp intake of breath told him she had not expected this.

"Only he wasn't king then, of course—just Crown Prince. He thought very highly of himself, even then, however." He knew he sounded bitter now, something he usually strove to avoid. "He was very clever—very handsome—very suave and well-dressed, of course, and positively dripping money and power—people were attracted to him, and I was no different. I liked being known as his friend because that made people want to be _my _friends. My ... my lovers, too. The girls Ozorne didn't want would sometimes settle for me." He hadn't realized before how ashamed he was of this particular facet of his former friendship."I had a sense, sometimes—more often, the longer I knew him—that he wasn't actually a very _nice_ person. Well, that's an understatement. But I'd have felt silly saying to myself, 'There's something _evil _about him.' I ought to have trusted that feeling. I wish I had."

His voice growing hoarse—she left the bed for a few moments to fetch him a glass of water, but it helped very little—he described the experience recreated by his recent nightmares. He turned away from her, now, unwilling to see the shock and anger he expected even from the corner of his eye. Once she had heard the whole story, she could throw him out if she chose; but if he lost courage for even a moment before the end, he would never regain it.

"I didn't report it to anyone," he said softly. "I was too frightened, at first, of losing what home I had; Ozorne had more influence there than you might think, though it wasn't his country. And the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that no one would believe me—or take his actions seriously, if they did. Compassion for lab animals was not a high priority in that time and place," he added dryly. He could almost feel her outrage.

"Ozorne didn't invite me to witness any more of his 'breakthroughs.' Instead he began spreading nasty rumours about what _I_ was up to. Finally I worked up the courage to confront him—to tell him what I thought of him. I got carried away and told him I hoped he'd manage to kill himself before he inherited the throne, because if he didn't he'd be the worst king his country had ever had. It was stupid of me, and he thrashed me soundly for my pains and told me that the next time he saw me, I wouldn't walk away alive. It sounds like adolescent posturing when I say it, but, believe me, he was in deadly earnest. Another friend" (he didn't name this one, and wondered whether Daine had noticed) "came along and found me, and fetched Lindhall, and they patched me up. And I did my best to keep away from Ozorne, of course. I finished my dissertation, said goodbye to Lindhall and ... and the friends I had left, and scarpered.

"It's amazing how well a person can hide, just by growing his hair and _not _trying to grow a beard and picking out a new name. You wouldn't think it possible, in this marvellous age of globalized communication, but it was—I dropped straight off Ozorne's radar, and stayed off it just long enough to put down roots somewhere else. Find a job, make friends, get British citizenship in case he tried to have me deported. Of course, it wasn't as easy as I'd thought it would be." A wry grin. "Haven't you ever wondered why I've got two PhDs? One's enough for most people. But I needed credentials, and I couldn't use the ones I'd already earned without someone back in Cairo twigging and running to tell Ozorne. Because a year after he—after what I've just told you, his father died and he went back home to be King."

He swallowed, considering, and then went on: "And there's another reason. Even once Ozorne knew where I was, and I could have gone back to being Arram Draper, I didn't want to. I'm not the person I was then, Daine. I don't think you'd have liked Arram much, let alone married him. He was—_I_ was—"

He was desperate to see her face, now, though terrified that it would hold only anger and rejection. He steeled himself to turn and face her—and was caught off guard by her fierce embrace.

"You're not—you're not angry with me?" he asked, still hesitant.

"With _you_? Ye gods, Numair, no." Hands on his shoulders, she drew back to study his face. "Is that what you thought? That I'd despise you?" He nodded, speechless. "It was brave of you to tell me, then."

"I ought to have told you long ago," he said. "It was—irresponsible of me not to. But I was so afraid of losing you—if I felt you couldn't respect me—"

"My respect for you was well earned," she told him seriously. "This doesn't change that. And I love you desperately—it won't change that, either. Heaven knows I've done things I'm not proud of. Only …"

He saw, and dreaded, the question in her eyes. "What is it, vetkin?"

"Did you ever—am I the only person you've told this to?"

"No," he replied, in a flood of relief. _Is that all? _"I wrote about it to Lindhall, after I left. He brought the matter to the attention of the university authorities, and there was an investigation. The only real effect was to make Ozorne angrier. He suspected I was behind it, of course. There was no evidence of anything—and in any case no crime, no legal crime. Lab animals do die; even had someone examined their bodies, there was only my poor, belated word to explain how they'd died, that it was deliberate and malicious. 'They're only animals,' someone would have said. 'Not even particularly intelligent ones.' People don't realize, sometimes, that someone who begins by torturing animals …"

"Usually moves on to people," Daine finished. Her blue-grey eyes were troubled. "That's what you've been dreaming about, isn't it?" He nodded again—_close enough_. "And this is why Alanna went all round our room looking for bugs? Numair, why … What are we doing here? Why has someone who wants to kill you invited you to a party? And, for heaven's sake, _why are you going?_"

"I've no idea what he has in mind. I won't deny that it seemed like a bad idea to come here in the first place. But it could be such an important conference … and as for me, I'm trying," Numair said softly, "to make some things right."

* * *

"It doesn't worry you," Numair asked, "that I talked you into marrying me without telling you the sordid details of my early life?" 

"Not particularly," said his wife absently. It was early morning; she was seated cross-legged at the desk in their hotel room, fingers flying over the keys of her laptop as she revised her notes for the panel she was to chair later in the day.

"You don't feel I've kept too many secrets from you?" he probed, trying to imagine how he would feel in her position, fearful that this was the calm before some kind of storm. "It was a risk, you know, marrying someone—even moving in with someone—you knew so little about …"

Daine's fingers stilled; she turned toward him. "I knew enough," she said firmly.

* * *

_"They tell dreadful stories about you, you know." This is how Daine greets him when they meet for coffee after her first week in the Dick School's veterinary program._

"_Who's 'they'? And what stories?" he demands, though he has a very good idea._

"_The other students. When people find out I know you, they all want to know if the rumours are true." She sniffs disdainfully. "As if I would have any idea."_

"_And the rumours are …"_

_She raises an eyebrow at him. "That you've slept with every female member of academic staff who isn't nailed down, and any graduate student who's willing. That you've never dated the same woman for more than three months. That—"_

_"All right, all right, you can stop now." He raises both hands in surrender. He is surprised and dismayed to discover that he is blushing._

_"They also say," she remarks thoughtfully, "that you're very responsible about protection …"_

_"Daine!" How can this girl, twelve years his junior, make him feel so like an awkward adolescent?  
_

_"Well, people do have to talk about these things, Numair." Her tone is eminently reasonable. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. And it's not as though I don't know about condoms. I'm an undergraduate student—we're practically_ issued _them by the Residence Tutor when we move into our halls of residence. I only mention it to show you the stories aren't all bad."_

_She grins wickedly, an expression he finds profoundly disconcerting. He casts about for a change of subject: "Which lecturer have you for Comparative Anatomy?"_

_They do not discuss this topic again, but his thoughts on his sex life, he soon discovers, have forever changed. Though comforted by the fact that he remains on good terms with nearly all of his former lovers (there are fewer than two dozen, in fact, a number that suddenly seems appallingly high), he becomes prey to morose moods and fits of self-loathing, and his latest girlfriend (if 'girlfriend' is not too strong a term for their relationship) drops him abruptly, complaining that sharing his bed is no longer any fun. The next one loses interest just as quickly, and after that there are no more._


	5. 4: Competition

**A/N: **I think this chapter is pretty self-explanatory ...I hope.

**Disclaimer: **Characters invented and owned by Tamora Pierce, transplanted and pruned by me.

**

* * *

4: Competition**

"What on earth are you doing?" Numair inquired, sounding amused.

"Trying to press this bloody frock," Daine returned, not amused at all. "As I've got to wear it to another bloody party tonight, thanks to your friend."

His amusement vanished. "Please don't joke about it, love," he said. Then, after another minute of watching her struggle with the travel iron in her hand—she had borrowed it from Alanna; it would never have occurred to either her or Numair to purchase such an article—he said, "And stop that. You'll only burn your fingers. There's a shop downstairs; I'll buy you a new dress after your panel. It's bad form, anyway, to wear the same one to two parties in a row."

She put up the fiendish device with a feeling of profound relief. "Done," she said.

"Daine? Don't forget to unplug it."

A beat.

"And don't stick out your tongue at me. It makes you look twelve years old. Unless, of course …"

She threw a pillow at him.

* * *

"What do you think?" Numair asked. Dressed in most of his formal suit, shirt collar and cuffs unfastened, he had let his hair fall loose around his face and was surveying the result in the mirror. "Do I look dashing and Byronic?" 

Daine paused in her own toilette to examine him critically. "No," she concluded after a moment. "You look much more like Professor Snape, I'm afraid. Better tie it back."

He looked disappointed but resigned; she grinned at him. "If it's dashing and Byronic you're wanting to look, maybe we ought to stay in tonight," she said.

"Vetkin, you have no idea how much I wish we could."

* * *

_She learns quickly and voraciously, surprising him not by her intelligence or her quick uptake of facts—this he expected—but by her fierce determination to master anything that initially eludes her. In this she is at least his equal, and his respect for her grows._

_His attempts to learn archery, and to become a better horseman, are less successful. He is long-armed and strong enough to draw any bow in the University's equipment shed, and after some practice he is able to hit the standard targets eight or nine times out of ten; but Daine's quick, fluid grace with a bow eludes him, and beside her he feels over-large and clumsy. Her friend General—the big bay gelding—tolerates him, but, he senses, only because Daine has asked him to; Numair does learn to ride a little better, a little more easily, but he will never have as natural a seat as she. He would rather sit on the paddock fence and watch her ride, and tells her so. She laughs. "Only if you'll let me come and watch you fence with Alanna," she teases him. This is such an unappealing prospect—fencing is one of his favourite forms of exercise, and he is good at it, but Alanna is the one opponent he can never beat—that he shakes his head and perseveres._

_What she calls her "way with animals" continues to amaze him, and he finds himself looking at the animal kingdom in a new way, as a world at least as complex and subtly differentiated culturally—he cannot think of a better term than "culture" for what she shows him—as it is biologically._

_"Animals are just like people," she tells him one day. "You just have to explain things to them."_

_He shakes his head, smiling._

* * *

This party was a hundred times worse than the previous one. King Ozorne's palace was of an ostentatious grandeur that made their terribly grand hotel seem tastefully simple; the food was positively unidentifiable; there were fewer people, but, as most of those present were nervous and ill at ease, and inevitably some chose to cope by means of ill-judged alcohol consumption, the noise level was not appreciably less. 

But worst of all was the King himself.

Daine wondered what she would have made of him without the benefit of Numair's background narrative. He was handsome enough, certainly, bearing a strong resemblance to his nephew, though he looked older than his age (he was several years older than Numair, she remembered, putting him somewhere in the neighbourhood of forty), and he exerted himself to be charming—some might have said successfully. Was it only her prior knowledge of the man that made her see a glint of madness in his eyes? Did he make her skin crawl only because she kept picturing him blowing up rabbits and mice? No, she decided, finally: Ozorne was creepy, full stop. _He's like a caricature sinister bloke in a film. Only much worse, because he's _real. And he took himself very seriously, she could see that. He made elaborate speeches containing no hint of irony; he looked at people, Daine felt, as though he saw nothing in them but the use he could make of them.

The frock Numair had bought her should have boosted her self-confidence. She had seen in Numair's face when she first put it on that it was more than flattering; she had admired herself in it, feeling rather beautiful; even Alanna had favoured her with an appreciative whistle when their group met in the hotel lobby to await their conveyance to the Royal Palace. Instead, the dress—though not particularly revealing—made her feel uncomfortably exposed, as though she was trying hard to be something she wasn't. _Which isn't so very far from the truth, I guess._

Prince Kaddar had greeted her with more friendliness than she had expected, given Numair's performance of the evening before, and for this she was grateful to him. On the other hand, he had also introduced her to his uncle with what she considered unnecessary effusions about her talents, and she now found herself engaged to spend the following afternoon touring King Ozorne's zoo and examining certain birds in his private aviary whose behaviour concerned him. She had volunteered to go and have a look at them that very moment, not least because this would have allowed her to escape the party for a time, but the king would not hear of her troubling herself thus—or so he said.

Daine was just thinking that the evening surely couldn't get any worse—and they had not yet begun the banquet proper—when she saw a tall, curvaceous blonde woman in her middle thirties approach Numair, wearing a suggestive smile and a dress that must have cost several hundred pounds. "Why, Arram!" Daine heard her say. "Look at you! Whatever have you been doing with yourself all these years?"

"Varice," said Numair in an odd voice. "How—how lovely to see you again."

Varice held out her hand and Numair, recovering the slightly mocking gallantry that was natural to him, took it in his and brought it up to his lips. "You haven't changed a bit, my dear," he said.

Daine, doing her best to appear unhurried and unconcerned, made her way to Numair's side and touched his elbow briefly. "Your drink," she said, handing him a glass of something pink that she had selected for herself.

"Oh," he said, momentarily puzzled. "Thank you. Daine, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Varice Kingsford."

"Delighted to meet you," said Daine, trying to mean it. She held out her hand to shake the other woman's.

"Varice, this is Veralidaine Sarrasri—Daine—my wife."

Varice dropped Daine's hand as though it had stung her, then tried to look as though she hadn't. "I—I didn't realize you'd taken the plunge, Arram," she said. Her tone was just a little more strident than before. "A student of yours?"

Numair looked taken aback, and no wonder; he surely hadn't expected his "old friend" to be so rude. "A colleague, actually," Daine answered, as though the question had been addressed to her. "I teach animal behaviour at the veterinary school, and I run the Big Cat Rescue at the Edinburgh Zoo. That means wrangling lions and tigers and such," she added casually (exaggerating only a little).

As she had intended, Varice looked nonplussed. "That must be a very—interesting—job," she said in a strangled voice.

"And what is it _you_ do, Ms Kingsford?" Daine inquired.

But she did not find out, at least not then, because it was at this moment that a huge gong was sounded to summon them to their meal.

* * *

Daine cursed herself silently for wondering how the evening could get worse. As if Varice herself were not sufficiently unpleasant, the royal seating arrangements had placed her next to Numair and Daine on the far side of the room from them, next to Kaddar and uncomfortably close to the exalted seat of the king himself. She and the prince talked determinedly about their work and the differing customs of their respective homelands, and Daine picked at a plate of saffron rice and fish and tried to force herself to check on her husband no oftener than every five minutes. Whenever she did glance Numair's way, she wished she hadn't; if Varice wasn't touching his arm or batting her eyelashes at him, she was urging him to try some mysterious and exotic dish that Daine knew, if his "old friend" didn't, would probably make him sick. 

"She's quite harmless, you know," Kaddar said at her elbow, startling her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Miss Kingsford," he explained. "She wants always to be the centre of attention—it's her job, in a way—but I should be very surprised if she ever did anything actually malicious."

Daine chose her words carefully. Kaddar seemed sympathetic, but he was, after all, his uncle's heir; it would not do to make him angry or suspicious. "What," she inquired, "actually _is_ her job?"

"She's my uncle's social convenor, I suppose you could say," he replied. "She plans these banquets—he gives a great many of them, you know—and is in charge of planning menus, ordering flowers, and selecting décor for the Royal Palace …"

"So she'd be in charge of tonight's seating arrangements, as well, then." Someone who knew Daine well would have recognized her tone as dangerously polite.

"Well, yes. She's rather brilliant at it, in fact. Although I confess I did ask if she might consider seating us together."

"It looks," said Daine, "as if she was very careful about where she seated _herself._"

Kaddar followed her gaze to where, at that moment, Varice was leaning up to whisper something in Numair's ear. Numair blushed scarlet—a sight that would have amused Daine if the circumstances had not incensed her—and leaned away, regarding Varice with what looked like outrage.

"Yes," said the prince quietly. "Yes, I do see what you mean. Daine—" He paused, looking troubled, then went on, "I am quite sure Miss Kingsford did not know of Professor Salmalín's relationship with you when she made these arrangements."

"That's all well and good," Daine retorted, "but she certainly knows _now_."

She found herself speaking—in a low voice, fortunately—into a sudden and profound silence: King Ozorne had risen to his feet to address his guests.

* * *

It was a long speech, full of elaborate turns of phrase and grand predictions of the breakthroughs the king expected this conference to produce. Daine took in very little of it beyond the tone—pompous and self-absorbed—and the idea that, in fact, Ozorne was more eager to claim credit for any positive outcome of the conference than to apply its recommendations in his own domain. She was tired, bored, and irritated—with the king, with Varice, with the menu and the seating arrangements, with her dress and her hair and her uncomfortable shoes, and, rather unreasonably, with both Kaddar and Numair. 

She wondered why Varice's behaviour toward Numair made her so angry—_she's lucky I'd already handed 'Mair that drink, or I might've flung it in her face!_—while the many young and pretty women who flirted with him on a regular basis merely amused her and his numerous former lovers bothered her not at all. _She acted like _I _was the other woman, _she realized suddenly. And Numair himself had not been amused, or tolerant, or gently condescending: he had been flustered and upset. _She isn't just "an old friend." She's the last woman he loved before me._

Varice being what she was, this was a disturbing idea.

From there Daine's thoughts drifted for a time to her husband's extraordinary confession of the previous night. It explained so many things: the intense interest in animal behaviour and animal welfare that so puzzled his "hard scientist" colleagues; his reluctance to speak of his family or his childhood; even, in a way, his odd behaviour with all the women before her: kind, gentlemanly, considerate, careful, but absolutely averse to any sort of commitment. _One thing it doesn't explain at all. It doesn't explain _me. _But maybe nothing ever will. _She wondered a little, as she knew Numair had, why she had not been—was not—more upset with him for keeping such important secrets from her for so long, or for leading her into a situation he himself believed might be dangerous. _Am I stupid? Am I too trusting? What else hasn't he told me? _But it was as she had told him this morning, she realized at last: _I knew the important things—the things about 'Mair that make him who he is. I just didn't know the _whys.

_Though I notice he didn't tell me about Varice Kingsford until he had_ _to _...

Twenty minutes into the speech she looked across at Numair and was startled to see him looking, not bored or irritated, but furious—though it was not a fury most people would be able to detect. (Varice, at his side, was happily pleating a serviette into a fan.) He was perfectly calm—perfectly still—perfectly contained. His eyes were absolutely expressionless. Daine had seen him look like this at the staff meeting when one of their colleagues argued that developing realistic virtual dissection programs to reduce the School's need for animal cadavers was a waste of time and funds, given the city's apparently inexhaustible supply of stray dogs and cats. She had seen it when, over pints in a particularly horrible pub near the campus, Alanna had told them of the arrest of a fellow Member of the Scottish Parliament for raping his twelve-year-old stepdaughter.

This was the look he wore when he was so angry that he didn't trust himself to speak. Daine wondered very much what Ozorne had said to provoke it.

She meant, of course, to ask Numair to explain; but by the time they reached their hotel it was past two in the morning, and she had fallen fast asleep against his shoulder in the back of one of the royal limousines.


	6. 5: Compassion

**A/N: **This chapter is very, very long. I just couldn't seem to make it any shorter, for some reason.

Thanks to those who have reviewed so far! Please review some more :) This is getting trickier, so I need the encouragement!

**Disclaimer: **Still Tamora Pierce's characters (all hail!) and my own messing around with them.

**

* * *

5: Compassion**

In the morning Daine and Numair attended a round-table session on the role of veterinarians in handling bio- and agro-terrorist threats. At the end of the session, feeling exhausted and spent rather than excited, they managed to elude their colleagues long enough to eat lunch, alone, in one of the hotel's several small cafés.

Both had slept badly the previous night and woken in irritable temper, and the afternoon's programme did not seem calculated to improve their moods. "I wish Alanna or I could go with you," Numair said. "I don't trust him as far as I could—"

"Forewarned is forearmed, remember?" Daine hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. "I'm going to see round a zoo and sort out what's the matter with these birds of his. That's all. How much trouble could I—"

"Don't say that." Numair held up a large hand, looking grim. "_Never_ say that."

"I didn't realize you were so superstitious."

"Only about one thing."

Leaning forward over her coffee, Daine smiled at her husband. "Try not to worry so much, love," she said. "You've got a couple of hours free this afternoon, haven't you?"

He nodded.

"The hotel's pool looks lovely. Have a swim—it'll clear your head."

Numair gave her an odd look. "Are you … are you prescribing a cold shower, Dr Sarrasri?"

"Do you need one, Professor Salmalín?"

The tension broken for a moment, they grinned at each other.

* * *

_He will never be sure quite when his love for her began, but he will remember the day—the moment—when he recognized it all his life._

_They and the Coopers and Onua have come for a week's holiday to the Coopers' Aberdeen home, and on this, their last day, Numair and Daine have walked down to the sea. They are standing together at the high-water line, feet bare, both working up the courage to dip their toes in the frigid end-of-August water. Daine goes first, finally, wading boldly in up to her calves; the cold makes her shriek a little, but she turns round to him, grinning, and calls, "It's lovely! Come along in!"_

_She wades out a little farther, until her knees disappear under the gently rolling surf and the wavelets crest just below the hems of her shorts. She turns again and waves, sandals in hand._

_And then the undertow pulls her feet from under her and she vanishes into the sea._

"_Daine! _DAINE!_" He screams her name as his feet pound down the beach and into the water, searching frantically for some sign of her. His legs are already numb almost to the knees, and he knows that a non-swimmer's chances of extricating herself are slim. He curses himself for not warning her more strongly of the danger._

_A small hand thrusts up after the crest of a wave and he lunges for it, grabbing Daine__'__s arm with both hands and struggling to stay upright as he seeks another handhold. He hauls her out of the water, drapes her over his shoulder, and, fighting the drag against his calves, strides back to the beach. He sets her on her feet and holds her up while she continues to cough up salt water._

_When he is satisfied that she is alive and well, he grips her slender shoulders—he is shivering as violently as she—holds her bewildered gaze, and says sternly, "Do not ever, _ever_ terrify me like that again." The ferocity in his voice astounds him._

_Then—he can't seem to help himself—he bends his head and covers her trembling lips with his._

_He is startled at the electric intensity of the kiss. Then, belatedly, he realizes what he is doing and is ashamed of himself: _She's only nineteen, and I'm thirty-one! She's my research assistant! This is utterly inappropriate! She nearly drowned five minutes ago—what sort of monster would take advantage of her like this?

_Until her arms tighten round his neck and she returns the kiss with a hunger that exactly matches his own._

_The day after their return to Edinburgh, he arrives unannounced and knocks at the door of her flat, intending to lecture her on the importance of knowing how to swim and to insist upon giving her lessons. She opens the door, face pale, lips set, brandishing a businesslike bathing costume with the Marks & Spencer tags still on. "I hope you've brought your kit," she says grimly. "The Uni pool opens in half an hour, and if we don't start straight away I'll lose my nerve."_

* * *

Prince Kaddar called for Daine punctually at one o'clock. He greeted her—and Numair, who had insisted on waiting with her for Kaddar to arrive—with scrupulous politeness. Daine thought he seemed subdued, but perhaps this was unsurprising after the previous night's excesses; she felt rather subdued herself. She kissed Numair briefly, holding her palm against his cheek for a moment in an effort to ease the worry in his dark eyes. Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned back to Kaddar. 

"Shall we?" she said.

Daine groaned silently at the sight of yet another royal limousine. Was she to spend all her time in this country staring at the interior walls of a hotel or at the inside of a German-made car? But there was nothing to be done about it. Smiling to thank the uniformed chauffeur who opened the rear door for them, she preceded her escort into the vehicle.

Outside the air-conditioned sterility of hotel and palace, obscured but not hidden by the tinted windows of taxis and limousines, she had glimpsed, and now glimpsed again, one result of this country's current economic turmoil. Its small oil reserves exhausted, much of its limited agricultural land gobbled up by luxurious housing developments dependent on a water supply imported at great expense, it teetered on the brink of utter ruin, and hundreds of rural people forced from their small farms and stock-raising enterprises now lined the main streets of the capital, hawking cheap trinkets to tourists or begging for money or food.

The fifteen-minute journey to the Royal Palace seemed longer today, without the reassuring presence of Numair, Alanna, and Lindhall Reed. Daine told herself firmly that Kaddar was a perfectly inoffensive person and her errand a perfectly harmless one; but in spite of herself she shivered at the prospect of an afternoon with King Ozorne.

"Are you cold?" the prince asked her, concerned. "I could ask the driver to lower the air-conditioning."

"No!" the syllable came out more violently than she had intended. She exhaled slowly and forced a smile. "No, thank you, I'm very comfortable."

Kaddar cleared his throat. "Daine," he began hesitantly, "Daine, I wonder if I could ask you … about Professor Salmalín …"

He paused, and Daine looked at him expectantly. "If you've a question for Numair, you'd do better to ask him directly," she said at last. "I can't keep track of all his research, I'm afraid."

"It isn't exactly …" another pause; the prince was beginning to look rather miserable.

It was clear to Daine, suddenly, what it was he wanted to ask.

"You're wondering about us," she said. "About our relationship, the difference in our ages. You aren't the first," she added, seeing his embarrassment. "We've been—together—since I was a student. It's turned some heads. But I'm not sure—" she tried to phrase it politely— "what _your _interest is in my relationship with my husband."

To her surprise, Kaddar smiled. "It's very good of you not to tell me immediately to mind my own business," he said. "My interest is—well—I have heard things about your husband that are not precisely complimentary. What I knew of him, before meeting both of you, did not lead me to believe that he would … would make a suitable husband for …"

On the alert now, and angry, Daine betrayed her feelings only in a tighter grip on her rucksack. "Might I ask the source of your information? It wouldn't be your uncle, by any chance?"

His expression told her she had hit the mark.

"Please don't misunderstand me," the prince said. "I should be very glad—I _shall_ be very glad—to learn otherwise. And I am familiar with your husband's work, and respect it greatly." Glancing over his shoulder at the impassive back of the driver's head, he leaned toward her and said softly, "Please understand that my uncle's prejudices are not mine."

"I'm glad to hear it," Daine said, also very softly. Leaning back in her seat, she smiled at him, briefly but with genuine warmth. "Once I've finished with the royal aviary, I hope you'll keep your promise to give me a guided tour? I feel as though I've seen nothing but upholstery for two days."

"You have my word on it," said Kaddar with a gallant half-bow.

* * *

The car deposited them at the Royal Palace and, with some trepidation, Daine followed Kaddar up the steps. The place seemed, if anything, more ostentatious by daylight, and her working clothes—it had seemed pointless to wear anything else for the purpose of examining anxious birds—seemed especially shabby in contrast. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she felt far more confident: _At least today I'm not in borrowed feathers!_

King Ozorne himself was on hand to greet them, also looking stranger and more ostentatious by daylight. His deeply tanned face was framed by elaborately pomaded jet-black hair, every strand fixed carefully in its place; he wore what Daine suspected was an invented military-looking uniform, all frogs and ribbons and gold braid.

"Dr Sarrasri!" he greeted her with a careful inclination of the head, which she answered with a bow (still feeling she ought to curtsey—but surely not when dressed in trainers, cargo trousers and a faded Edinburgh Zoo uniform shirt?). "It is very good of you to come. We are most grateful to you."

_Ah, yes, the royal "we." And here I thought the day was getting a bit better._

"I'm always happy to help animals in need, Your Majesty," Daine replied. "Perhaps on our way you could tell me more about the problems … ?"

This topic occupied most of the long walk to the aviary. Some two dozen of his birds, the king explained, had recently been behaving oddly: they were eating less than usual or refusing favourite foods; they were lethargic at times and at other times restless, even over-preening to the point of losing feathers. Daine wondered aloud, delicately, what other professional opinions had been sought and was told that the staff of the Royal Zoo had examined the birds but had not been able to diagnose or treat the problem. Ozorne appeared genuinely concerned about these small members of his household, and for the first time Daine felt a tiny glimmer of sympathy for the man.

An eye-blink vision of Numair's face as he recounted his memory-nightmare quashed the feeling swiftly.

* * *

_Daine's best friends among her fellow students are Miri Fisher and Evin Larse, both in the year ahead of her. Miri, a friendly, freckled brunette with mischievous green eyes, comes from a village in Devonshire and has grown up on the famous tales of veterinary life set in Daine's own home district; her outlook on life is an odd blend of the idealist and the prankster to which Daine is instantly drawn. Evin, tall, blond and rakishly handsome, is the son of two modestly famous stage actors, raised among the footlights in the West End of London. He begins their acquaintance by declaiming at her, with melodramatic flair, _

The general of our horse thou art; and we,  
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence  
Upon thy promising fortune. (1)

_Then he pulls a fifty-pence piece from behind her ear._

_Evin and Miri are inseparable, bickering and sharing jokes in equal measure, and to Daine their company is like a comforting refrain, easing the rigours of their demanding academic program and playing counterpoint to her unpleasant memories of Ryedale Comprehensive. It is inexpressibly liberating to have friends who don't know she is the illegitimate child of an unknown father, or—better yet—don't care._

_It is Miri who reveals to her that the graduate students in the School of Biological Sciences refer to Numair, behind his back, as "Don Juan Salmalín"—a nickname that mysteriously fades from current use some time during Daine__'s __second year. It is Evin who gives her her own nickname, the one that will follow her to her job interview at the Edinburgh Zoo, where the director greets her by saying, "Ms Sarrasri! I've so looked forward to meeting you. Aren't you the one they call the Beast Whisperer?"_

_(1) Shakespeare, _All's Well That Ends Well_, Act III, scene iii_

* * *

The aviary was, at least to Daine, the most breath-taking sight the Royal Palace had to offer. The huge room appeared at first glance to be open to the sky, though Daine quickly realized this was an illusion: in fact, twenty feet or more above her head, aviary netting supported by artfully camouflaged struts kept the birds safely away from a vaulted glass ceiling. After the dry cold of the air-conditioned palace, the heat and humidity, and the rich brown scent of loam and humus, struck her like a wall. Huge trees—huge, at any rate, in such a setting—towered over a landscape of waist- and shoulder-high tropical plants, and the air rang with the songs and conversations of hundreds of exotic birds. 

"It's beautiful," Daine heard herself say. She shut her lips tight against the next words that sprang into her throat: _How much did it cost?_ She appreciated, for the birds' sake, the attention to detail that made this environment so natural and inviting, and she could see and hear that the king treated his pets with kindness and gave them all they required; this she approved and admired. Yet the idea that such an unnecessary extravagance—for these birds had not been rescued, but imported, doubtless at significant expense—existed so close to the city streets where so many starving children begged for food appalled her.

_Is it really so different from home? _She argued with herself: _No—but yes. There's no help for these people anywhere, as far as I can see, and least of all from their own government. The one they don't even get to elect._

But this was not the time for such reflections; she had a job to do here, after all.

As Kaddar and Ozorne watched—each a little wary of the other, she observed—Daine stepped forward into the artificial forest, listening intently. She halted between two vine-draped trees and stood perfectly still, arms outstretched, eyes half closed, breath deep and slow.

At first nothing happened.

Then, cautiously, birds began to approach her; bright eyes studied her with interest, and claws, tiny and larger and larger still, gently gripped her skin, her hair, her clothes. A peacock waddled solemnly toward her and stopped inches from her toes. "Hello, little friends," she whispered. By now she had almost forgotten her human audience. "Thank you for this friendly welcome. I've come to help your friends who are ill. Can you show me where they are?"

Birds large and small twittered and burbled at her. Then two—a vivid crimson rosella and a white cockatoo with a startling yellow crest—separated themselves from the crowd and took off, swooping and circling. Daine followed, treading slowly and cautiously.

The birds in question were not hard to identify, once she knew where to look for them. The first few she spotted were too ill to fly; they perched on tree limbs, wings drooping, feathers dull and dishevelled, and when she stretched out an exploratory hand, they did not react at all.

She lifted a peach-faced lovebird gently from its perch and, cradling it against her chest with one hand, examined it closely. Its eyes were dull and staring, its heartbeat weak under her hands. As her fingers probed and preened, her mind raced through differential diagnoses. Poisoning, almost certainly; the birds had been poisoned. But how? By what? Accidentally, or deliberately?

She asked the birds what they felt. In twitters and squawks and throaty warbles, they told her.

Half an hour later, having examined all the afflicted birds she could find (twenty-two in all), she was sure of the agent, though not of the delivery. "Your birds have lead poisoning," she announced, re-emerging into the clearing where her hosts waited. Ozorne had a cockatiel on each shoulder, preening his hair; Kaddar squatted on the earthen floor, feeding mixed seed to a small crowd of rosellas.

The king looked up sharply. "Poison?" he demanded. "Impossible. I feed the birds myself, and the only keys to the aviary I keep on my person. No one could possibly poison them."

_What an interesting reaction. _"I didn't say the poisoning was deliberate, Your Majesty," Daine pointed out. Kaddar was looking at her oddly, she noticed—almost as though he were trying not to laugh. Glancing down, she realized how peculiar she must look with her hair pulled in all directions, her arms covered in tiny scratches, and her clothing spattered with bird droppings, and silently congratulated herself on having remembered to pack a change of clothes in her rucksack before leaving the hotel. "In most cases, animal or human, lead poisoning is accidental—the source is somewhere in the victim's environment. The most common vectors are lead-based paints and lead water pipes."

She paused, considering; in Europe, such pipes would be decades old, overlooked when others were replaced with newer, safer ones—but here, who knew? Was it safe to suggest to King Ozorne that his palace might need a plumbing upgrade? _I'll have to manage it somehow. The birds can't do it, and someone's got to. _"Perhaps you could show me how the water is piped into this room?"

The pipes were copper and looked almost new. Next Daine set out to determine, with the help of her new winged friends, where the majority of the affected birds habitually nested; the result was a cluster near the _trompe-l'oeil _mural that cleverly hid the aviary's complex climate control system. The painting was so delicately executed, its detail so intricate and true to life, that she had walked past it twice before she realized what it was.

Delicate and true to life in every respect except that up _there_, a foot or so above Daine's head on the right-hand side of the mural, was an area some two and a half feet wide where the paint was chipping off. "I think we've found the problem," she called.

* * *

Isolating the sick birds, explaining to the king how the poisoning had happened, and setting out an EDTA chelation therapy regimen to treat them, with written instructions to the vets and keepers of the Royal Zoo, took a quarter of an hour; fending off his extravagant expressions of thanks occupied a further half-hour. By the end of it Daine's head was aching with the effort of reconciling the two Ozornes: the devoted, even paternal, animal owner willing almost to give her lands and a title to thank her for her services; and the one she had seen last night, and still glimpsed now, whose compassion for the rest of his fellow creatures was evidently almost nil—and who, taken all in all, still made her skin crawl. It was a maddening contradiction, and the sort of thought experiment that, she reflected irritably, would have much better suited Numair. 

At last a cringing palace aide came to tell the king that Miss Kingsford was waiting for him in the council chamber, at His Majesty's own request, and Daine and Kaddar were able to make their escape.


	7. 6: Tourism

**A/N: **Another pretty long chapter, for those still reading. Review, please! Pretty please! The more actual plot I have to think up, the trickier this exercise gets ...

Thanks to those who have reviewed! In particular,

**Wildmagelette -- **Thanks, I hope you're still reading and enjoying!

**Dolphindreamer --** I'm trying to do that ... it's tricky. Let me know how I do ;)

**Tawnykit **-- Thank you! Writing, I'm good at ... it's the thinking-of-something-to-write that gets me into trouble. Glad you like the fluff. I adore fluff ;).

**Disclaimer:** Nobody really thinks I invented these people, do they?

**

* * *

6: Tourism **

The Royal Zoo was a short walk from the palace, and though Kaddar offered to call a car to convey them there, Daine insisted on walking. She had been conducted to a marvellously furnished cloakroom to change her bedraggled clothing and straighten her hair, and had re-emerged five minutes later to find Kaddar settling into an armchair and opening a thick book in Arabic.

At her cheerful "Ready when you are, Your Highness!" he had jumped a foot.

As they walked—at the leisurely pace dictated by Daine's reaction to the heat and blazing sun—they quietly discussed Kaddar's uncle and his birds.

"I'm rather surprised—_very_ surprised, in fact—that none of the Zoo staff were able to tell him what was wrong with the birds," Daine said. "It was quite straightforward really, at least the diagnosis was. Any qualified vet ought to be able to diagnose lead poisoning."

"You are a better judge of such things than I," her companion answered, with a little bow. "But—" here he lowered his voice and stepped a little closer to her— "I am somewhat better acquainted with my uncle, and I should not like to be the servant of his who informs him that his prize possessions have been tampered with."

"Servant? Possessions?" Daine did not immediately understand what he meant.

"All who are employed by him are, in the end, his servants," Kaddar pointed out, gently. "And since he keeps the keys to the aviary himself, and feeds the birds himself …"

Comprehension dawned. "I see."

They continued in silence for a few minutes.

"So, then," Daine said at last, "is that why I was asked to come here? So that I could tell him what his own staff didn't dare? Will they be blamed for the birds who died before I got here?"

Kaddar's face assumed a careful lack of expression. "My uncle does not confide in me thus far," he said.

* * *

"_That boy you've been seeing," Onua says, "What's his name? Perry?"_

"_Perin," Daine supplies. "Perin Clarke. What about him?"_

"_Is it serious?"_

"_Not specially. He's nice enough, but a little ... I don't know." Daine studies her friend; there is an odd look on Onua's face. "Why d'you ask?"_

_Onua shrugs: "No special reason." Then she adds, "Do I need to have a talk with you about—"_

"No_," Daine says, very firmly. "Because, one, I am _not_ sleeping with Perin, and I don't intend to; and, two, I've _had_ that talk. I'm eighteen, Onua, not twelve."_

"_Oh," says Onua. Is it Daine's imagination that she sounds relieved? "Well, that's all right, then."_

* * *

From one point of view—that of simple variety—the Royal Zoo was indeed impressive. It included creatures from nearly every continent (Antarctica excepted) and of every size and family. To Daine, who knew far more about animals and had seen far more zoos than most people, it lacked certain essential characteristics of the modern facility. The animals were almost all housed in ornately decorated cages, rather than in the sorts of purpose-built, naturalistic enclosures considered the norm in European zoos; no attempt had been made to create the kind of environment enjoyed by the birds in the palace aviary, for example, and many of the animals, while well fed and in adequate physical health, appeared frustrated, listless or bored. 

Kaddar asked her what she thought, and she struggled to form a reply that would be both truthful and polite. Diplomacy never having been her strong suit, she eventually gave up the struggle and said, "They aren't happy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"They aren't happy," she repeated, more firmly. "They're given the proper foods, their cages are kept clean and they're cared for when they're ill, but they aren't happy." _And nor would you be._

"They do not have the advantages of my uncle's birds," Kaddar acknowledged.

"No," Daine agreed. "The birds are happy. Some of them don't even realize they're captives. These animals …"

They had paused before a cage housing a lion and lioness. It was a large cage, but boxy and nearly bare, the concrete floor covered in straw. The male paced irritably along the bars, while his mate dozed in a corner. "You see?" Daine said. "They've nothing to do—they're bored. They haven't enough space to exercise their muscles. And lions live in large family groups in the wild; they're probably lonely as well."

Impulsively, she stepped over the low railing edging the footpath and approached the lions' cage, murmuring soothing and admiring phrases under her breath. Ignoring her companion's protests and his sharp intake of breath, she put out a hand toward the pacing lion, her face against the bars.

"It's dreadful, isn't it?" she said, her voice low and sympathetic. The lion paused; his great, regal head turned toward her, and he lowered his huge muzzle to her hand and sniffed it delicately. "You are a beauty," Daine breathed. "I'm so happy to have met you, sir."

She stroked his mane and laid her face against his muzzle, sending him all the thoughts of peace and contentment she could muster. Finally he sighed, sending a great hot gust of carnivore-breath into her face, and stalked majestically across the cage to lie down with his mate. Smiling, Daine backed away from the cage and hopped back over the railing.

Kaddar had sat down on the path, silk suit and all, and looked as though he were about to faint. "You—you—" he stammered.

"I'm sorry," Daine said, meaning it: she had evidently given the prince a serious fright. "I ought to've warned you I was going to do that." She reached down to give him a hand up, surprising him again, she saw, by the ease with which she pulled him to his feet.

"You certainly ought," he said, dusting himself off. "I should have stopped you."

"Oh, well," she grinned, "it's a good job I didn't, in that case. Look," she went on, "I wasn't in any danger. I was just doing what I do—my job in Edinburgh is mostly looking after big cats. It really …"

Her voice trailed off; she blushed under his gaze.

"I've heard you called 'Beast Whisperer,'" Kaddar said softly. "But I did not realize what that meant. I never imagined you could do anything like _that_. You are a woman of astonishing gifts, Daine Sarrasri."

_Oh, bugger. Now look what I've done. But that poor lion … I had to._

Daine raised her head and looked around for something else to talk about. In the distance she glimpsed a tall—a _very_ tall—figure; her heart leapt and, grinning, she raised her hand to wave at her husband.

Then she saw the woman following him, and her arm dropped back to her side.

* * *

_When taking up her place in the Bachelor of Veterinary Medicine & Surgery course forces Daine to give up her paying job in the stables, Numair organizes for her a part-time and summer post as his research assistant. He has never had one before, and he is not the sort of researcher to leave the work to an assistant while taking credit for the results himself; during term time he is not at all sure what work to assign her. Daine, ever practical, sees what needs to be done and does it: organizing his two offices on campus and then the one in his house; backing up his computer files on a strict schedule after discovering, to her horror, that he has never done so at all; restoring him to the good graces of the library staff by searching out and returning all his overdue books and making sure his fines are paid; and, when he is involved in some particularly absorbing experiment, ringing his mobile at mealtimes to remind him that body as well as intellect requires sustenance. More and more often she goes with him to lectures and conferences, where she organizes his lecture slides, handouts, and lab demonstrations and makes sure all his equipment does what it is meant to do.  
_

_During the summers, when she is not on extra-mural studies, they travel together, on foot or by bicycle (occasionally even on horseback), throughout the UK, observing populations of hedgehogs, tawny owls, wood mice, pipistrelle bats, ospreys, foxes, red squirrels, and other native species. They camp or, occasionally, stay in hostels; often their targets are nocturnal, and so they sleep by day and wake in the late afternoon to eat bread and cheese and apples, put on heavy jumpers, and sit up all night in the woods or at the edge of a pond or stream, two silent watchers who communicate in a language of economical gestures. By the middle of the second summer they can pitch or strike their camp in less than fifteen minutes, going about their separate tasks equally without argument and without overlap or collision._

_"It's like watching a ballet," remarks Onua, who has joined them to share Daine's tent for a few days by way of a holiday. "Or an old married couple," she adds under her breath._

_Daine straightens up from setting up the campstove, and Numair from fitting together tent poles. "What?" they say together, and then they turn to each other and grin._

_"Nothing," says their friend, hiding her own knowing grin._

**

* * *

**

"Miss Kingsford."

"Dr Sarrasri."

While the two women exchanged chilly greetings, Numair and Kaddar shook hands with every appearance of relief.

"Daine," Numair said, kissing his wife's cheek, "Varice dropped round for a chat while I was swimming, and I suggested that since she knows the Royal Palace and its environs so well, she might give me a tour while I had some free time."

Daine nodded, slightly mollified. _At least here we all have to be fully clothed, and I can keep an eye on her._ If it occurred to her that the revised programme also gave Numair an opportunity to keep an eye on Kaddar, this seemed a perfectly reasonable compromise.

"Daine was just demonstrating to me why she is called 'Beast Whisperer,'" Kaddar remarked. He still wore a haunted look. "It was a quite … enlightening performance."

At this Numair grinned, enjoying the other man's discomfiture just a little: "She frightened you out of your wits, you mean. Lions, was it?"

The prince nodded.

"You never do anything by half measures, do you, vetkin?" He kissed the top of her curly head. Daine's answering smile vanished when she saw Varice's expression, knowing the older woman saw Numair's gesture as amusingly paternal. But Numair's attention was elsewhere. "I did try to warn you, the other night. Imagine how I felt the first time I saw her confront an angry three-hundred-pound Siberian tiger."

"An _Amur_ tiger." Daine elbowed him in the ribs. "You make me sound like a circus performer, Numair. Natasha wasn't _angry_," she explained to the others. "She was in labour, and having a lot of trouble."

Kaddar and Varice were goggling at her. "Look," she said, with a touch of impatience, "we've all got jobs. This is mine, and I happen to be rather good at it. Now, Your Highness, shall we go on with our tour?"

She saw Kaddar smile in apology and, with a little bow, gesture toward the path ahead; she heard Varice's small sound of disdain. She did not see Numair beam with pride in her or imagine that he was picturing the rough-edged, timid stable-hand she had once been—had once imagined herself being more or less forever—and admiring what she had made of herself since then. But she did feel his long fingers twining into hers, his thumb stroking her wrist, and it was almost enough to make her forget Varice's unwelcome presence.

* * *

Their route took them out of the zoo and down into the Old City, where a sprawling marketplace offered everything from burlap sacks of rice and dried legumes to exquisitely wrought gold and silver jewellery. Not to mention hordes of other people, shoppers and gawkers and beggars and, Daine suspected, the necessary complement of pickpockets. 

"Have an eye to your purse," Kaddar murmured to her, confirming her suspicions. She had no purse, but she took the precaution of shifting her wallet from the outer pocket of her rucksack (where it was, she now saw, foolishly accessible to all and sundry) to the left front pocket of her trousers. In the right-hand pocket she stowed a fistful of local change, which she dispensed, bit by bit, to begging children when Kaddar and Varice weren't looking. Numair, she saw out of the corner of her eye, was doing the same.

* * *

This evening's dinner was a more standard sort of conference banquet, with an address by a famous expert on bioterrorism and a blessedly dull menu (rice pilaf for the vegetarians, and chicken for everyone else). Free to decide their own seating arrangements, Daine and Numair placed themselves, with considerable relief, in adjacent chairs at a table with Alanna, Lindhall Reed, and two acquaintances of Alanna's from the University of London. 

"I know we're supposed to use these things to _network_," Numair confided in a low voice, "but if I have to do any more networking I think I may short-circuit."

"And here I thought you'd been having such fun," Daine teased him. She had once envied him his ability to mingle easily and make polite conversation with strangers; but she knew now that what she called his "party face" was only a mask for a dislike of crowds and false camaraderie as great as her own.

She had planned to avoid the topic of Varice Kingsford until they could discuss it in privacy, but Alanna rendered her decision moot by inquiring, midway through the salad course, "So, Numair, who is the blonde bombshell who stalked you into the swimming pool this afternoon?"

Numair blushed, Daine cringed, and Lindhall Reed shook his head ruefully. The Londoners looked politely intrigued.

"An old friend," Numair said. "She works for the king. I shouldn't imagine we'll see too much more of her."

His tone warned Alanna not to pursue the matter further. "Nick, Andrea," she said instead, looking across the table, "what did you think of the panel on anthrax this afternoon? Rather alarmist, didn't you think?"

* * *

"You wouldn't answer Alanna," Daine began, "but you are going to answer me." She stood in front of the sofa where Numair sat, her arms folded, her expression forbidding. 

She didn't explain what the question was; they both knew well enough.

"Of course, vetkin," Numair said. "Only—"

"I'll make it easy for you," she continued calmly. "I'll tell you what I think, and you can just nod. Right?"

He sighed. "Right."

Daine took a deep breath. "You knew her in Cairo, at the university."

A nod.

"She's the friend who patched you up after you fought with Ozorne."

"That's giving both Ozorne and me too much credit, but yes."

"You were in love with her."

A long pause, then, at last, a reluctant nod.

"And now?"

Numair looked up at his wife, puzzled by the question; and as he looked, the contrast between her mouth, set in a defiant line, and her wide, pleading eyes explained it all. "And now, nothing," he said firmly. "Sweetheart, this isn't like you. You've never been jealous before—"

"I've never met anyone you were in love with before."

"_Were. _In the past tense. Daine, for heaven's sake, until yesterday I hadn't seen the woman in _fifteen years_."

"She's your own age, nobody would mistake _her _for your student. She's blonde and gorgeous and—" she heard the bitterness and need in her voice, and despised herself, but she couldn't seem to stop.

"_Daine._" He stood up abruptly, forcing her to take a step back and tilt her chin up to see his face. "Daine, _stop it_. You're being silly and childish." She drew breath to retort, then let it out in a whoosh when she realized how right he was. _Why are we having this conversation? This isn't like us at all. _"Listen, vetkin. Arram Draper loved Varice. He was young and didn't know any better. But I am not Arram Draper any more—and Numair Salmalín loves _you_."

"I know," Daine said in a small voice.

He sighed again, pulling her into his arms. "Sweetheart, there are real dangers here. Varice Kingsford isn't one of them. I understand how her behaviour—and, frankly, my own behaviour—could inspire jealousy. Believe me, vetkin, I know exactly how you feel." His arms tightened around her. "This place … we're both on edge. But if you can forgive me for—for all those other things, surely you can trust me not to abandon you and run off with Varice?"

She leaned against him silently for a long moment, savouring the uncomplicated pleasure of his arms around her and his heartbeat thudding under her ear. "Of course I trust _you_," she said at last. "I'd trust you with my life, 'Mair. I just don't trust _her._"

To her astonishment, he began to laugh—an honest, full-throated sound that rumbled in his chest against her face. "Of course you don't," he said. "I've told you, vetkin—I know _exactly_ how you feel."

* * *

"_Onua, what do you know about this boyfriend of Daine's?"_

"_Not much. Perry, is it? Or Percy, or something? He's in her year—I think he's in her final project group."_

"_Are they … do you think it's serious?"_

"_How should I know? Have you asked Daine whether it's serious?"_

"_I thought perhaps _you_ could ask her."_

"_Numair, I really don't think—"_

"_If I ask, she'll only be annoyed with me. She thinks I'm too protective."_

"_Are you?"_

"_Whose side are you on?"_

_"I'm not on anyone's 'side.' I'd prefer not to be involved in this at all—that was my point."_

_"I don't want Daine to be hurt, Onua. That's all."_

_"Is that likely? Do you know something about this boy that I don't?"_

_"Well, I do know something about boys, full stop—"_

_"Daine can take care of herself, Numair. She may be only eighteen, but she's very steady, and you know well enough that she isn't stupid. She won't thank me for interfering."_

_"I didn't ask you to _interfere_. Just to—you know—ask a few questions."_

_"Right. Not interfere, just interrogate."_

_"If you're going to be like this—"_

_"I'm … puzzled, that's all. You and Daine are close friends—as close as she and I are, at any rate. I'm trying to work out why, if you're worried, you don't just tell her so."_

_"It's more complicated than that. And I'm not precisely _worried_. Just—interested. Concerned."_

_"I see."_

_"Onua!"_

_"All right. I'll ask. One time. But that's all—and don't think I won't sell you out if I have to."_


	8. 7: Deception

**A/N: **I am trying to go somewhere somewhat original with this, but it's getting really tricky, so please bear with me!**  
**

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapters ...

**

* * *

7: Deception**

Very early on the third morning of the conference—it was a Monday, Daine thought, but as always when travelling she was growing vague about dates—she woke slowly, infinitesimally aware of a shift in the air, a slight motion that should not be. Inches away, Numair slept on, coal-black hair tumbled over both their pillows, snoring gently. Daine sat up in bed and looked around, puzzled, taking inventory: the furniture was all as she remembered it, her bright orange laptop was there on the desk and Numair's oversized one, the cases on the rack, the shoes at the bottom of the closet. There seemed to be no more or fewer papers stacked on the furniture than before—

There. That was it: a white rectangle of paper on the dark-green carpet, just inside the door.

Quietly, not wanting to wake Numair, she slipped out of bed, padded over to the door, and picked up the folded note.

* * *

Numair woke at seven-thirty to the insistent beeping of the hotel alarm clock, which stood on Daine's nightstand, and pulled the bedclothes over his head with a groan. The beeping went on. At first he was simply irritated: Why had she not dealt with it? It must have woken her, surely. "Turn it off!" he growled.

Then, turning toward the sound, he registered the empty space between the alarm clock and himself, and was confused. Was Daine already up and in the shower, perhaps? No—the only sound in the room was that incessant beeping.

_First things first_. Glowering, Numair reached over and hit random buttons on the clock until it stopped beeping. The ensuing silence was absolute.

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed. "Daine?" he called softly, as though she might be hiding under the desk or behind the curtains. "Sweetheart, are you here?"

Numair would have been the first to admit that mornings were not his forte. He had often wondered how Daine managed to put up with his almost invariable morning growling (her coping mechanisms seemed to involve deep silence, coffee, and very hot porridge with a great deal of butter). Could she, he wondered now, have gone down early to breakfast in hopes of connecting with someone she wanted to talk to before the day's sessions began? Had she gone swimming? No—there was her bathing suit, hanging with his over the shower door. Wherever she had gone, it was very unlike her not to have left some message to explain her absence.

With this thought in mind, Numair began a more systematic search. There was no note on Daine's pillow, on his nightstand or hers. Nothing on the desk or on the lid of either laptop. Nothing on the dresser.

When, finally, he discovered her message—scrawled on the back of a subscription flyer advertising discounts on a Canadian zoology journal, one corner tucked underneath his sponge-bag next to the sink—it did more to heighten his concern than to alleviate it.

_Got a note from Alanna about an injured stray. Gone to investigate._

_Back for breakfast._

_Love,_

_D_

The idea of a summons from Alanna in the early morning seemed, on the face of it, absurd; the Lioness of the Falklands had often been heard to remark that she had left the army primarily in order to have the occasional lie-in. And an injured stray? _Here?_

_Well, one way to find out._

The phone in the bathroom (_Why is there a phone in the bathroom?_) connected him with the front desk, and thence with Alanna's room. She answered in a sleepy croak: "Cooper. Whassit?"

"Alanna." His voice was tight with worry. "Is Daine with you?"

"Numair? What time is it?"

"Nearly eight. Have you seen her?"

"Daine? No, of course not. Wait—she isn't with you?" Alanna sounded awake now, and equally worried.

"She left me a note to say she'd gone to see you and she'd be back for breakfast. Only she isn't, and, clearly, she didn't."

"Damn it!"

"My thoughts exactly," Numair said dryly.

Alanna sighed. "Put something on," she said. "I'm coming round."

Numair dressed quickly and carelessly, his mind racing. It was past eight o'clock now, and he had to give a paper at nine. Daine wouldn't miss that, surely? _Well, for a sick or hurt animal, she would. Daine has her priorities._

Hard on the heels of this thought came another, more disturbing one: _And after what Kaddar and Varice saw yesterday, I'm sure Ozorne knows that._

* * *

_From time to time, on request, the Edinburgh Zoo lends Daine to other such institutions. Sometimes she diagnoses and treats mysterious behavioural problems; several times she helps previously unsuccessful feline and primate mothers to care for their latest offspring, in more than one case sitting cross-legged inside an orangutan or gorilla enclosure demonstrating to its occupant how to nurse her baby. The big apes seem not to notice, or care, how her appearance and her scent differ from their own._

_Numair joins her when other commitments permit, observing and taking notes that, together with Daine's own, will later form the basis of lectures and articles on animal behaviour._

_Shortly after her twenty-third birthday, Daine travels alone to Berlin to consult with zoo staff there who are concerned about their female snow leopard; in the same week, Numair has been engaged for months to give a special lecture in Uppsala. Neither has been away overnight alone since their wedding. During the journey, and while working with her German colleagues and their patient, Daine is busy and therefore cheerful; but when the door of her hotel room closes behind her for the evening, the silence and solitude descend on her like a suffocating drift of snow._

_She has brought both professional reading and a novel, but cannot concentrate on either; the music on the available radio stations is either too irritating or too melancholy to be good company. She turns on her laptop, plugs it into the hotel's LAN, and checks her e-mail, scrolling past several dozen listserv postings before she finds the single message she is looking for:_

**To:** Sarrasri, Daine

**From:** Salmalin, Numair

**Subject:** Uppsala calling Berlin

Sweetheart,

The lecture went all right, I think. How is your snow leopard? Pining for her mate, as you suspected?

The weather in Uppsala is dreadful; I hope Berlin is more pleasant.

I'll see you soon. Sleep well.

Love,

N

_Tears cloud Daine's eyes, as she reads the brief text over and over, until she can no longer distinguish the words. The profound, unforgiving loneliness that assailed her after the death of her family, and was turned back by the joys of friendship, love, and useful work, returns in a sickening wave that threatens to swamp her entirely. Disgusted with herself—for her tears, for being so dependent that a single night alone seems an unbearable prospect, for wishing Numair had written a longer message or that he had mentioned missing her as she misses him—she logs off and shuts down without sending an answer and, though it is barely nine-thirty, undresses and, sniffling, crawls into bed._

_Turning in early turns out to be a mistake: if the room was lonely with lights and music on, the vast, cold, sterile bed—with no husband, no dogs, and no cats to share it with—is a thousand times lonelier in the dark. Turning on the bedside lamp to have another go at her novel is of no use, and turning it off again, reflecting that she is so exhausted that surely she must fall asleep soon, does no good either._

_When the red numbers on the digital alarm clock blink from 2:59 to 3:00 before her still-open eyes, she gives up. Her mobile is next to the clock; she reaches for it and dials._

_As soon as he answers, she knows he hasn't been sleeping either._

_"You didn't answer my message," he says. "I thought you must be so busy that you hadn't had time to—"_

_He stops talking because she is sobbing too hard to hear him. Not since the night of her confession to Onua and him has she cried like this._

_"I don't like being so far away from you," she manages, at last. "It was all right in the daytime, but now it's so—it's so—"_

_"I know," he says._

* * *

"I've checked the pool, the breakfast room, and all the conference rooms," Numair said, his large hands grasping fistfuls of dark hair as if this would help him think. "She isn't anywhere I've looked, and no one seems to have seen her." 

Alanna looked at her wristwatch. "Your thing starts in ten minutes," she pointed out. "You'd better neaten yourself up and go and give your paper, and Lindhall and I will keep looking. She can't have gone too far."

Lindhall Reed nodded.

"Go and give my paper … without Daine?" Numair stared at his friends, not immediately realizing how bizarre the question would sound.

Alanna and Lindhall exchanged glances. "You've done it before, surely," Alanna said patiently.

Blushing a little, Numair shook his head to clear it. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course. We'll meet back here at ten-thirty. You know where to bring her if you find her."

If the brilliant (and famously absent-minded) Professor Numair Salmalín, in presenting his research into the biochemical signatures of biological weapons, seemed somewhat more scattered than usual, his slides less well integrated with his notes and his manner particularly distracted, few in his audience noticed, and none suspected the cause.

Many people, however, noticed his breathless sprint back to his hotel room.

"Well?" Numair demanded, once they were all behind the closed door.

Lindhall spread his hands, and Alanna said, "Nothing, Numair. I'm sorry. We've looked in every publicly accessible spot in this building, inside and out, and she isn't here. I tried ringing her mobile, but—"

"_Damn _it!" Numair's large fist shook the sofa he and Alanna were sitting on. "That's it! I'm fifty kinds of fool, Alanna. I ought to have known all along how to find her." He paused. "Or, at any rate, how to find her mobile."

Frantically he dug his laptop out of its bag, switched it on, and waited, long fingers drumming impatiently on the desk, for it to boot up. "We got separated, once, up in the Highlands, and Daine nearly broke her neck trying to climb down a crag before we found each other again. I gave her the mobile for her birthday—it's got one of those GPS tracking things. I've never actually used it."

Alanna looked sceptical. "You mean the ones marketed at nervous parents and employers who don't trust their staff?" she inquired. "Did you tell her what it does?"

As he typed in his password, he thought about it. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I suppose I expected she'd work it out on her own—you know how she and the cats like to press buttons and see what they do …"

By now he had found and accessed the Web site he needed. "Somewhere I've got the code you put in …" A brief rummage through an encrypted file directory and he had it. Silently the three of them watched the GPS locator find and map the signal they sought.

"Where the devil—" Alanna began.

"Bloody hell." Numair felt suddenly very cold. "She's in the Royal Palace."

* * *

Daine next woke in utterly unfamiliar surroundings, with a splitting headache and a cold knot of anxiety in her stomach. Her mouth was dry, and what little light there was hurt her eyes. She felt, perplexingly, as though she were tied or chained to the cot on which she lay, though she could see no such bonds holding her. 

On the edge of her consciousness hovered something, some fragment of recognition, that she couldn't quite catch.

She drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and instead filled nostrils and lungs with a sour, unpleasant odour that made her stomach churn. The phantom bonds on her shoulders, hips and ankles eased their hold, and she sat up, stiffened muscles screaming in protest. The ache in her head intensified, and an impulse she could neither identify nor resist made her swing her legs over the side, stand up, and begin pacing back and forth across her small prison.

There seemed to be no compulsion to look in any particular direction, and so, as she paced, she looked around her, studying her surroundings carefully. There was little enough to look at: four bare concrete-block walls, one heavy steel door fitted tightly into its frame, the cot bolted to the floor, a bucket in the opposite corner. No possibility of escape, certainly. _And to think, two days ago I was complaining about being trapped at a cocktail party._

Suddenly it occurred to her to wonder whether she still had her mobile on her and, if so, whether it would work. Slowly, fighting against whatever power kept her pacing to and fro, she slipped her left hand into her trouser pocket. There it was—_thanks be!_ Painstakingly she drew it forth and forced her chin down and her palm up so that she could see the display.

NO SIGNAL, it said. _Damn, damn, damn._

She dropped the mobile back into her pocket without noticing the tiny green light flashing to the left of the screen.

Panic surged; the small room seemed to be getting smaller. Daine's body stopped pacing and she stood frozen in the centre of the floor. She fought to move a leg, an arm, but it was like pulling her limbs through thick, clinging mud. _This is just like my first time in the pool, after ..._

_That's it! That's _it. _If I could learn to swim, I can deal with this. Whatever the hell "this" is._ She stopped trying to move and closed her eyes, steadying herself and trying to deepen and slow her breathing. Letting her mind drift, she called up the sound of that beloved voice—not teasing, this time, not rough with passion or merry or grim, but steady and reassuring and blessedly calm. _It's all right,_ _vetkin_, said Numair, in her mind. _I'm here. I've got you. You're safe._

The panic receded, little by little, until at last it seemed safe to open her eyes.

* * *

_Daine approaches swimming as she once approached statistical analysis: grimly, expecting to detest the exercise but determined to master it. Numair can see her terror plainly but pretends, so as not to injure her pride, that this is a lesson like any other._

_He also tries hard not to notice, and appreciate, the way the navy-blue shorts and tank-top of her new bathing-suit cling to her slender curves. This is clearly not the proper context to explore the new turn their relationship has taken._

_Six months from now, Daine will be a strong and graceful swimmer, a credit to Numair's teaching; her rapid progress will astonish her friend Miri, a swimmer from childhood, and eventually she will feel almost as much at home in a swimming-pool as she does on horseback._

_But at first, the experience is even worse than she expects. The water feels deathly cold; she struggles to move her limbs, and the reminiscent tug of the water against her muscles makes her mind scream with terror. Only Numair's warm, patient voice in her ears, his large, strong hands guiding and supporting her, prevent her from clambering out of the pool and running away in tears._

_"You made a good start today," he tells her later, when they are fully clothed again and she is warming her hands around a large mug of tea in the nearest coffee shop._

_She scoffs._

_"It's true, vetkin. Most people wouldn't even try this, so soon after what happened to you the other day. I'm proud of you."_

_She folds her arms, ducks her head. "About the other day …"_

_"Yes, we ought to discuss that."_

_"You saved my life. I don't think I remembered to thank you—but I am grateful, Numair. For that, and for—well—"_

_"You would have done the same for me, Daine. You have done, in fact—have you forgotten how we met?" It is hard to know which of them is more embarrassed. "That wasn't quite what I meant, however—"_

_"I know." She will not meet his eyes, terribly afraid, suddenly, that he is about to explain away the kiss, to tell her it didn't mean to him what she knows it meant to her._

_"I'm sorry about—about what I did. It was unfair—I took advantage. I was so terrified that you'd drowned—I'm not sure what came over me, but I promise it won't happen again."_

_Too late, he sees the single tear drop onto her folded arms. His pulse pounds in his ears. Reaching across the small table, he cups her chin, raises her head, meets her damp, defiant gaze._

_"Unless you want it to."_

_Her blue-grey eyes blaze for a moment with unbelieving joy._

_He takes both her hands in his, heedless of the heads that have turned in their direction. "I love you, my vetkin," he says softly._

_"I love you, too." Daine's voice is equally soft, wondering. "I think … I think maybe I always have."_

* * *

"I'm going up there to find her." 

"Not on your own. I'm coming with you."

"No, Alanna."

"I'm not one of your students, Numair. I don't answer to you. I'm your friend, and Daine's friend, and if you think I'll let you go haring off alone to confront a tin-pot dictator—"

"It's bad enough I've dragged Daine into this mess. I won't be responsible for any more … I won't drag you into it as well. I've got no one else—you have George and the ch—"

Alanna stared at him. "If you're going to talk like that, you're obviously not fit to go _anywhere_ alone."

"Have you not _listened_ to what I've told you about Ozorne, Alanna?" Numair's large hands were clenched in frustration. "He's dangerous. I don't know what he's up to, or what he wants with Daine—"

"You don't even know he _has_ Daine," Alanna pointed out reasonably. "All you know is that she—or her mobile, anyway—is somewhere in the Royal Palace."

"She went out to meet you, _lured_ by some sort of message that you didn't send, and she hasn't come back." She had seen Numair angry before, but rarely like this. His voice was cold, flat, absolutely expressionless—and twice as frightening as mere angry blustering would have been. "It's been half a day. Daine would not stay away this long of her own volition, not without a very good reason, and _she would not lie to me about where she was going. _Wherever she is, however she got there, she is there against her will, and I am going to get her back."

"Arram. _Numair_." Until now Lindhall Reed had been so silent that both Numair and Alanna had almost forgotten his presence. "Before you do … anything, please think. Is this—this display of solitary heroics not exactly what Ozorne will expect of you? Do you think he hasn't planned for just this eventuality? Tell me, Numair: how will you help your wife by charging alone into a trap he has laid for you?"


	9. 8: Terror

**A/N: **This seems to be the longest chapter yet! Thanks to everyone who's still reading (and especially those who are reviewing! now do it some more, pretty please!) at this point.

**maddimus3**, **Tawnykit**, and **random pineappleness **-- thanks, glad you liked!

**Dolphindreamer** -- I really am trying on the originality ... plotting is something I really struggle with, though. As is finishing stories, sigh. Those were some of my favourite lines as well ;)

**Disclaimer: **See previous 8 chapters.

**

* * *

8: Terror**

Numair stared at his long-time mentor, his cold fury ebbing away to give place to the deathly chill of fear. He had imagined that Ozorne would have some purpose for Daine, some project to which she would be persuaded, or coerced, to lend her talents before he would consider releasing her, and had pictured himself confronting his former friend and persuading him—forcing him—to give her up. Now he saw that the truth might be considerably worse: if Ozorne saw no value in Daine for herself, if she was only bait in a trap for others—_for _me,_ damn and blast it—_then what were her chances of emerging unscathed?

He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to collect himself. It was a mistake: the nightmare was waiting behind his eyelids, striking with more force than it ever had in sleep. _My God, is _that _what he's doing? _

He staggered; hands caught his elbows, and his eyes flew open.

"I did this," he said aloud, in a voice he did not recognize. "I brought her here, when I ought to have made her stay at home."

"That is quite the most preposterous thing I've ever heard you say," Alanna retorted. Her tone, matter-of-fact and scathing, brought him back to earth. "What would you have done—drugged her, perhaps, and tied her up in your kitchen to stop her following you to the airport? This is _Daine_ we're discussing, Numair, not some shrinking violet who expects her husband to protect her—"

"_I_ expect her husband to protect her." Numair glared at his much shorter friend, who gave him glare for glare with her peculiar violet eyes.

"Fine," she said. "You will. But you won't do it like a—an idiotic schoolboy playing at James Bond. And _you will let me help you._"

"If I could, I'd bundle you onto the first flight out of this godforsaken country."

"Which of us has the combat experience, hmm? Were you planning to tackle him with an epée or a longbow?"

"Children, if I may make a suggestion?" Lindhall's dry, quiet voice drew their attention once again, and they stopped glaring at each other to stare at him. "You're sure we can safely talk here?" he asked.

"I'm sure," Alanna told him. "I've done a daily sweep of my room and this one since we arrived. And just in case I've missed any, there's this." She turned over the alarm-clock and pointed out a small square object adhering to the casing. "It makes them pick up the BBC World Service. My husband is—he trained for the Secret Service," she explained, seeing his raised eyebrows. "I've picked up a few useful skills from him."

"Well, then. While you two argue and try to apportion blame, we are wasting time that could be put to much better uses. Dr Cooper—Alanna—it's important that you understand the nature of the enemy, if I may put it in such terms."

"I think that's fairly safe," Numair interjected, bitterly sarcastic; he turned away, muttering, when Lindhall gave him a quelling look that sent him twenty years back in time.

"Numair does not overstate the danger," Lindhall continued, bluntly. "Ozorne Tasikhe was a brilliant student, and he remains a highly intelligent man. We are in his domain, and his power here is all but absolute. We can't be certain what his motives were in offering to host this conference, or in making such claims the other night—although I think we _can_ be certain that the motives were not altruistic, and the claims false. It's an open secret in this region that the terror campaigns he blames on 'rebel factions' are organized by those close to him, perhaps even by himself. This is a dangerous man, Alanna. Whatever has become of Daine, I'm certain she is in grave danger."

They took a moment to digest this—Numair pacing like yesterday's caged lion, Alanna standing "at ease" like a soldier being briefed for a combat mission. Despite his words, the older man's quiet voice, his formal speech, were oddly soothing.

"However—Arram, listen to me, please—Ozorne is not a practical man, and he is not entirely sane. He is also prone to gross underestimation of others' intelligence, talent, and skills. Nor does he take women as seriously as he should. If we can guard ourselves from the same faults, we will have an advantage. In addition—" despite Alanna's assurances, he lowered his voice warily— "we know something that Ozorne does not—something of great importance."

There was a knock at the door, and Alanna and Numair jumped. Lindhall, however, merely glanced up and nodded, looking pleased. "Go ahead," he said to Alanna. "It's all right—he's a friend."

"Who's a friend?" Numair demanded, suspicious. But Alanna was already opening the door.

"I am," said Kaddar.

* * *

"What did you bring me here for?" Daine demanded, trying to stare down her captor. She was badly frightened, and keeping her anger on the boil seemed the surest way to stop him seeing her fear. How could she have felt sympathy for this man? "Is this how you thank me for my care of your birds?" 

"Manners, my dear Veralidaine!" said King Ozorne. She heard his mocking tone as a grotesque echo of Numair's. "This is hardly a polite way to greet your host."

"My _host_?" she fairly spat the word at him. A guard prodded her ribcage with the muzzle of his rifle, a reminder to tread cautiously; she ignored it. "If luring me out under false pretences and having me kidnapped and locked up underground is your idea of hospitality, _your majesty_, seems to me you could take a few lessons from the Scottish Prison Service. So if you don't mind, just dispense with the pleasantries and tell me what use you intend to make of me."

The king, now clad in silk Nehru jacket and white lab coat, looked very slightly taken aback; it must have been a long time, Daine thought, since anyone had spoken to him so sharply—or so honestly, come to that.

"That will become clear to you at the proper time," he said. The more time she spent in his vicinity, the more his voice made her skin crawl. "For the moment we would like to show you something that may be of interest to you." He turned away and motioned to her to follow. She intended to refuse, to stay where she was and defy him (even in so small a thing, this struck her as vital); but, just as they had earlier, her legs obeyed orders other than her own, this time carrying her forward in his wake. Dread chilled her; anger burned it back.

_It's _him _doing that_, she realized. _How the hell …_ And then it came to her, and her stomach lurched.

* * *

"_You went _where?_" Daine has never seen her flatmate look so astonished._

"_Out to dinner," she repeats patiently. "With Numair."_

"_Dressed like _that? _You look … well … sexy._"

"_Well, it was a _date_, Miri."_

"_But I thought—I thought he was—don't you _work_ for him?"_

_Daine looks at her toes, a secretive smile on her lips. "Things have changed a little."_

"_And when were you planning to tell me?" Miri demands, folding her arms._

"_I am telling you, aren't I?"_

"_You know what I mean, Daine Sarrasri. What happened? When? Is it serious?"_

_Now Daine scuffs her toe against the carpet, embarrassed but unable to articulate why. "I fell in some water, up in Aberdeen. Numair pulled me out, and then he kissed me—well, I kissed him, too—and now he's teaching me to swim" (here Miri pretends to swoon) "and then …" she whispers it, almost hating to share that perfect moment: "he said he loves me."_

"_Ye gods and little fishes!" Miri exclaims, hand over her heart in mock dismay. "Don Juan Salmalín, in love. What's next—an invitation to tea and bikkies with the Queen? Parades of elephants in the streets of Edinburgh?"_

"_Don't tease, Miri. I think—I think it _is_ serious."_

_Instantly contrite, Miri rushes to hug her friend. "I'm sorry, love. You must admit, though, it's rather … surprising."_

"_That's the funny thing," says Daine. "Now that it's happening, it feels as though I've been expecting it all along."_

* * *

"Lindhall, are you _mad?_" Numair was so spectacularly angry that Alanna half expected him to begin giving off sparks. "You expect us to trust this—this _youngster—"_

"Not so _very_ young, Arram," the older man said mildly. "From my perspective you are not so old yourself. Kaddar, you are … twenty-six, is it?"

The prince nodded warily, his eyes on Numair.

_A year older than Daine. _"I take your point," said the latter grimly, his anger none the less imposing now that he had brought it under his control. "I think you can guess what some of my other objections are. Can he answer them so convincingly?"

"I think I can," Kaddar replied. "Lindhall, you haven't told them?"

"I was just getting to that point," the older man said. "By all means, continue."

Still wary, Kaddar looked from Numair to Alanna and back again; he seemed to be deciding something (_Perhaps_, Alanna thought wryly, _which of us is least likely to hit him_). Finally he fixed his gaze on Numair and began, "I asked Daine yesterday to believe that I do not share my uncle's prejudices. In the circumstances, I dared not say more. I am, as you know, my uncle's heir; it is rather a precarious position." His thin lips twisted briefly, and then he went on—flatly, as though he were not at this very moment committing high treason. "My uncle is in the process of destroying this kingdom to enrich himself, and he has now reached the point of _needing_ more wealth than his own territory can supply. Through an alias, he founded and controls the terrorist network that harries our neighbours. He is now developing biological weapons, apparently based on research he began as a graduate student—what research, we have not yet been able to discover. His goal in hosting this conference was to gain up-to-the-moment knowledge of current counter-terrorist measures."

Alanna swore loudly; Numair's grip on the nearest bedpost tightened until the carved wood snapped. He regarded the splintered pieces in his hand with a puzzled expression, and Kaddar winced.

"And that business with the birds? The invitation to the royal zoo?"

"The birds," the prince said carefully, "were genuinely ill. Accidental lead poisoning. None of my uncle's tame veterinarians was willing to risk using the word 'poisoning,' and so they might simply have gone on dying had it not been for Daine. My uncle was, I believe, genuinely grateful to her for this service. However, it must also have suggested to him that she could be useful to him in other ways."

"He trusts you with such knowledge?" Alanna demanded.

Kaddar laughed. "Certainly not. He does not trust me—what is your expression?—so far as he could throw me. However, he also underestimates my intelligence, and my circle of acquaintance. He has his spies, and my allies and I have ours."

"Varice." Numair said under his breath.

"Yes, and no," Kaddar replied. "She has no knowledge of what I've just told you, but her loyalty to my uncle is absolute, and who knows what he may have told her about you and your wife …"

"Damn it, I told Daine she wasn't dangerous."

"I told her the same, I'm afraid." Kaddar said. "I should imagine that we both had a different sort of danger in mind."

In the silence, Lindhall cleared his throat.

"Your allies, you said?" Alanna prompted.

"Allies, yes," Kaddar went on, nodding. "Many in this country, of course, object to my uncle's … management, if you will. Businessmen, doctors, scholars, officials—even military men. Here they—_we—_must remain underground, but elsewhere, particularly in Cairo, where the movement is strongest, we are freer to make practical plans. Sabotage, mostly," he said, with a fleeting grin, "as well as ferrying out of the kingdom dissidents who have been exposed—whose lives are in danger. _Our_ ultimate goal is to force my uncle from the throne."

He turned abruptly to Numair, who was looking at him thoughtfully. "I should very much like to ask you, Professor Salmalín," he said, "just what you did, or said, to my uncle to make him hate you so."

Numair sighed. "As Lindhall knows," he said, "I was your uncle's close friend for several years. His—research interests—led me to end the friendship in rather a melodramatic way. I said … things which a penniless scholarship student should not say to a crown prince. He was not able to forgive me." Telling Daine this tale had been cathartic, a cleansing relief; telling Kaddar was merely humiliating.

The prince raised an eyebrow, but let the matter drop. "I have often had cause to doubt my uncle's grip on reality," he said. "His obsession with you is one of those causes. Be that as it may," he continued, "the point is that I have knowledge, connections, and resources that we can use to help Daine. And, with luck, to bring down a tyrant."

_Such language! _Alanna thought. _He's been reading too many Victorian novels._

"If you think your forces are capable of that, why haven't you done it already?" she asked bluntly.

"Stage a military coup, you mean?" Kaddar inquired. "A _putsch_? One faction overpowering another, for no other reason than a lust for power? Dr Cooper, what we need is to expose my uncle's … well, his treachery, I should call it. You are a politician, are you not?"

Alanna shrugged uncomfortably. "Not a very good one," she said. "I'm no good at keeping my mouth shut when I ought—can't seem to stop being a soldier."

"But you know," Kaddar reasoned, "that a bad government is its own worst foe, that it sows the seeds of its own downfall. That is happening here and now. The question is whether those seeds will sprout and blossom before the field has been rendered utterly barren, or whether they will simply be ploughed under in the planting of a new crop of corruption. _That_ is why timing is of the essence."

Alanna nodded slowly. Glancing at Lindhall, she saw that he was also nodding, clearly approving of his student's assessment. Numair was again muttering something under his breath; when the others looked at him inquiringly, his face made a ghastly parody of a smile and he said, very quietly, "She told me you were a botanist."

Then he straightened, and glared. "You've an army, you say." Kaddar nodded. "Then why are we standing about?"

* * *

Daine followed Ozorne through endlessly twisting corridors along a route obviously chosen to disorient and confuse. The small part of her mind that was neither keening in panic nor busily reviewing and rejecting plans for escape was irritated by this extra layer of precaution, as though her captor was not satisfied with merely controlling her body and felt some need to fuddle and distort her mind as well. 

_But of course he does. Think who you're dealing with._

They had left the last of the guards behind some time ago; this had surprised Daine, but only for a moment, since it was already clear that her captor needed no help to keep her under control.

Somewhere far below the main level of the palace (as far as Daine could tell), in a brightly lit and gleaming corridor, they halted outside an austerely blank door. It had no visible handle or lock; mounted on the dazzlingly white wall to its left was a device that looked to her like a keycard reader with no slot, or a keypad with no keys. Ozorne put one thumb, then the other, against the blank black square; there was a soft click, and the door swung inward on silent hinges.

"Come, Veralidaine," he said. He laid a hand against her shoulder blade; it felt like a caress, and Daine felt her gorge rise. No one called her _Veralidaine_ – no one ever had – and the fact that King Ozorne did so struck her, for some reason, as deeply and unpleasantly significant. It annoyed her that she couldn't work out why this should be so.

They passed through the doorway into another corridor, this one – impossibly – more gleamingly white than the last. On either side frosted-glass doors lined the walls, each with its own thumbprint lock. There seemed to be no one else anywhere nearby.

They halted again at the third door on the left, which bore the legend "L13." Ozorne repeated the thumbprint procedure, and again the door swung silently inward.

The light in here was so bright that Daine instinctively shut her eyes and turned her face away. "Now, now," said Ozorne, and her head was forced back around, her eyelids forced open, so that she had no choice but to look at the scene before her.

The room—the lab, rather, for such it clearly was—was much larger than she had expected, and as unrelentingly silent and sterile as everything else she had seen down here. That small part of her mind wondered, _How does he keep it so clean and tidy? Robots? Or maybe there _are_ people down here, but they're hiding. Maybe—_she choked down a hysterical giggle—_they're invisible._

Numair's description vividly in her mind, Daine half expected to see a collection of terrified lab animals ranged on one of the gleaming stainless-steel tables; but there were no animals, no cages, in sight. _He's moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose_, she thought. _But if there aren't any animals in the case, what does he need _me_ for?_

On the far wall was suspended an enormous flat television screen.

Ozorne gestured with one hand, and Daine's knees buckled, forcing her into a seat on a bench she hadn't noticed was behind her. She glared up at him; he looked distantly amused. "A clever trick, is it not, Veralidaine? A chemical cocktail of my own invention: a distillation the essence of fear." He looked at her expectantly; she went on glaring. "Of course, controlling one person is of very little use; satisfying, entertaining, but not practical. Child's play, really."

"If the child's a monster." The words emerged through tightly clenched teeth. Her body's instincts warred with his hold on her, every nerve and muscle screaming in protest.

"Temper, temper!" But she was getting to him, after all: a tic twitched the corner of his left eye, and his tone of tolerant amusement had begun to sound slightly forced. "You are about to witness the making of history, my dear. A unique opportunity. We are about to create, you might say, a new definition of _terrorism._" Smiling wolfishly, he drifted over to a glass-fronted cabinet, from which he extracted what looked like a very expensive remote-control device. He pointed it at the gigantic screen and pressed a button.

* * *

_Numair has never really thought of himself as a pet owner, but with Daine come her two cats, Griffin and Spots, who evidently consider themselves _his_ cats as well. A third cat, a skinny black molly whom Daine, for no reason that is ever explained, christens Cloud, adopts them a month or so later; Cloud is followed by a rescued Irish wolfhound, appropriately named Mammoth, and a shaggy mixed-breed terrier sort of beast who goes by the name of Mangle._

_After all these years alone in a large-ish house it is odd, at first, to have so many housemates. Before long, however, the dogs and cats, like Daine herself, seem inevitable. Griffin's odd habit of stalking and "killing" table scraps before eating them, for example, or Cloud's propensity to perch on the edge of the bath and pull aside the shower-curtain with one forepaw, then flee, yowling, as water droplets speckle her fur, Numair soon regards as endearing rather than irritating. _

_One spring afternoon he arrives home to find that Daine has installed six orphaned hedgehoglets in a blanket-lined box near the Aga. She sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor, painstakingly feeding a hoglet with a tiny syringe. _

"_I'm sorry," she says, when he quirks an eyebrow at the box. "I know I should have asked you first. It's your house, after all. Only I found them looking for their ma, and she'd been squashed by a lorry or something and I was worried they'd wander into the road after her or—"_

"_You don't have to ask," he says, and means it. "It's your house, too."_

* * *

In Aberdeen, in an old stone house called Pirate's Swoop, two strawberry-blonde teenagers on holiday from school watched the BBC World Service with their tall, hazel-eyed father. The anchor cut to live coverage of an unfolding terrorist attack in a small, despotic Middle Eastern nation. The three watchers took in image after image of posters, placards and statues of an imperious-looking man in military dress as the camera proceeded down the main thoroughfare of that nation's capital city, toward a large, grandiose building boiling with frantic activity. 

"Bloody hell," said the girl. "I think that's Mum's hotel."

* * *

**Update A/N:** I realized after posting this that, duh, Aly and Alan are two years too young for Uni in a modern setting. That's all.  



	10. 9: Conspiracy

**A/N:** Yeah, they keep getting longer and longer ... I'm not sure what's up with that!

**Dolphindreamer --** No, she never did ask him, but you'll find out in this chapter. Basically, it's something that wouldn't mean anything to anyone present except Numair.

**random pineappleness** -- yeah, I just finally got TC and TQ from the library last week, and I really like Aly, so I had to give her a teensy cameo appearance :).

**Disclaimer:** Characters invented by Tamora Pierce; I am merely doing weird stuff to them for my own amusement (and a few other people's, I hope!).

**

* * *

9: Conspiracy**

From their vantage point on the balcony of a bootleg Internet café around the corner, Numair, Alanna and their co-conspirators heard the explosion as a brief, muffled _crump_ followed by an unnatural, but equally brief, silence. They looked around them, startled, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, and quickly went back to their respective tasks.

"Ceremonial salute," Kaddar murmured absently.

"Or test firing," suggested his friend Zaimid. The two young men were busy on their PDAs (Kaddar's registered to a fictitious Royal University student by the name of Azan Fikret), text-messaging confederates throughout the country; Alanna (growing increasingly discouraged) was searching for architectural plans of the Royal Palace, while Numair monitored the GPS signal from Daine's mobile and followed a hunch of his own. Lindhall, sipping Turkish coffee at a table nearer the railing, played lookout, eyes on the street-level entry below. Numair had drained his cup quickly and now wished he hadn't, realizing that the last thing he needed in his present state was a jolt of caffeine; Alanna's sat untouched next to her laptop, although she was helping herself one-handed from a plate of baklava as she worked.

They had made subtle changes to their dress and general appearance, such that the prince now looked like a cheerful, scruffy student and the foreigners like bored tourists anxious to keep up with their e-mail. Alanna's bright hair and memorable eyes were obscured by sunglasses and the sort of rich-British-lady-overseas hat in which she would never have been caught dead under ordinary circumstances. In their interactions with the staff of the café, Kaddar played the part of hired interpreter while Numair and Lindhall pretended not to speak any Arabic.

Numair had been surprised at first by the ease with which the three of them had shifted from academia into plotting insurrection—himself particularly. After all, Alanna was (as he had heard her put it once) married to MI5, and Lindhall, however unexpectedly, seemed up to the eyeballs in Kaddar's secret schemes; but it was years—well over a decade—since he had been involved in any sort of skulduggery. It came as naturally to him as to any of his companions, however, and it was not long before he realized why. _I'd trust you with my life, 'Mair_, Daine had said. Nothing could be more natural, more _right_, than whatever he had to do to justify that trust, now that he had (as he saw it) betrayed it so spectacularly.

After some time Alanna sighed, massaging the back of her neck. She cracked her knuckles, stretched, raised her head – and froze, staring with her mouth open. Numair, then Kaddar and Zaimid, followed her gaze.

"What the hell," Numair said softly.

* * *

For a long time seemed to be happening, and Daine wondered what it was that the king wanted her to see. He was waiting and watching patiently, however, and he did not strike her as a patient man: something was going to happen, that much was clear. The screen showed a view of the large public square one side of which was the King Ozorne Hotel; the hotel's façade, draped with banners showing portraits of its namesake, occupied centre stage, and in the foreground, an island in the sea of people, she could see the statue of Ozorne on horseback that (perplexingly, at the time) had so amused Numair when they first arrived. 

At first she had heard a very faint sound that might have been an explosion, but might equally have been her imagination; her nerves were in such a state that aural hallucinations would not have surprised her.

After some hours – or was it minutes? – a flash of movement caught Daine's eye. Startled, she gave the huge image her full attention. The hotel – _her_ hotel, where this morning (was it this morning? Or a week ago?) she had left her husband and her friends asleep to go out into this nightmare – appeared to be haemorrhaging people. They streamed out of exits and milled about on the terraces and verandas, then, astonishingly, began to fan out along the railings, one person stationed every two or three feet. Heads and torsos began to sprout from windows on the upper three storeys. Ozorne began to chuckle quietly, and Daine tried to glance at him but found her head would not turn. Their view of the hotel-front focused in and sharpened, shutting out the surrounding scenery, and Daine gasped: every one of those people was carrying a weapon.

But they didn't look like soldiers or guerrillas; they looked like ordinary people, dressed in suits, or khakis and shirtsleeves, or blouses and skirts. Her eyes darted from one to another and widened, horrified, as she began to recognize faces she had seen over the past several days at banquets, round-tables, and conference panels. The faces were expressionless, but in their eyes, even at this distance, she could read fear and bewilderment, panic and horror and disgust. She could not see Numair, Alanna or Lindhall among them, but with a sick, sinking feeling she spotted Alanna's friends Andrea and Nick, then a zoonotic disease researcher from the Dick School, then three members of the panel she had chaired on the first day of the conference. All were looking terrified and aiming automatic rifles out at the square, where, unseen now, cries of panic and rapid, disorganized footfalls told Daine of fleeing crowds.

"What have you done to them?" she demanded.

Straining to turn her head, she was caught off guard when the hold on her neck muscles suddenly evaporated and turned it too far and too fast, wrenching her neck painfully. Ozorne was smiling at her, an ugly, vicious smile. "Can you not guess, my dear?" he asked.

* * *

_Their wedding is the simplest they can manage, although this occasions arguments with their friends._

"_But everyone in two Schools knows the two of you," Alanna points out. "Practically the whole College. There'll be hurt feelings …"_

"_Which is precisely why we can't invite everyone we know," says Numair, patiently. "Unless the University is planning to foot our catering bill."_

_He realizes his mistake immediately: Lady Thayet, Alanna's bosom friend and wife of Lord Jonathan Conté, the University's Chancellor, sits up a little straighter in her seat and begins trying to catch her husband's eye._

"No_, Thayet," Numair says firmly. "Absolutely not. Daine would have me skinned alive. She was extremely specific: I'm to invite you lot, and Onua, and she'll invite her friends Evin and Miri Larse, and _that is all_." He looks round the room—at Alanna, and George, and Thayet, and Jon—and fixes each of them with a forbidding stare. "If I find that any of you has—how shall I put this?—disregarded my fiancée's expressed wishes, I shall be very upset, and things may begin to explode in your vicinity when you least expect it. Do I make myself clear?"_

_It is a gift, he reflects later, to be able to intimidate such influential people. He hopes he has not gone too far._

_The event itself comes off without a hitch, despite Numair's lurking anxiety that Daine will suddenly change her mind. The conversation that has by now become a ritual—"Marry me, vetkin?" "Someday, love."—one day took a different direction, and he has not yet quite got over his surprise. They speak the words of the marriage ceremony in wondering voices, their real vows and promises exchanged through their rapt mutual gaze, smoky blue eyes never leaving velvet brown._

On leaving the Register Office, Daine and Numair find that their minimalist catering arrangements have been cancelled by Thayet and are instead borne off by their friends to an extravagant—and vegetarian—dinner at their favourite restaurant.

"_Since you wouldn't let me plan you a proper wedding reception," Thayet explains, with a wink._

_The Coopers' three children, and the Contés' five, accompanied by Evin on the guitar, perform (in four-part harmony) a comic wedding ode of their own composition, dedicated to their adored "Aunt Daine and Uncle 'Mair."_

"_It was lovely of them," Daine tells him, when it is all over. "But I'm _so_ glad to be home."_

_He kisses her lingeringly and carries her up to bed._

* * *

By the time the first shots echoed across the vast square, most of its occupants had already fled, not waiting to discover whether the unlikely holders of all those deadly weapons knew how to use them; there were so many that this would very likely not matter. Those who had not headed for the hills, full stop, had taken shelter in the shops and cafés that bordered the other three sides of the plaza, whose owners had then closed, locked and barred their doors and shuttered their windows, upstairs and down. Only the mad foreigners (and their local escort) on the upstairs balcony of a certain slightly dodgy café remained out in the open. 

Crouching behind the balcony railing, Kaddar and Zaimid looked from Numair to Alanna and back, listening with something like awe to the most fluent, inventive and polyglot cursing they had ever heard.

"Those people are our colleagues," Alanna finally said, in a voice strained by disbelief and horror. "Our friends. They're doctors and vets and university professors. This can't—it's some kind of bizarre optical illusion, or …" Her voice trailed off; the woman who had commanded a battery of artillery in the Falklands when barely out of her teens looked as though she was about to be sick.

"It's him," said Numair. "Do you remember what he said, at that god-awful dinner party of his? That 'a progressive nation, one which focuses its resources on scientific discovery, need not live in fear of war'?"

Alanna nodded, impatient. "I remember. What has that to do with—"

"When we were students," Numair went on, "he was experimenting with a way to control animals by injecting them with a chemical compound that induced and then harnessed a biological fear response. He said—" his voice shook— "he said that if you could mass-produce this chemical, and use it on people, you would never need another weapon."

"What you're describing is impossible," said Alanna flatly. "It wouldn't work. What could you possibly inject that would make sane, civilized, _peaceful_ people start shooting total strangers? Who's directing them, and _how_? None of it makes any _sense,_ Numair!"

Four pairs of eyes – three dark brown, one piercing blue – regarded her in silence. "Have you a better explanation?" Numair asked quietly.

* * *

As they watched, Jeeps and open trucks careened into the square from every connecting street, and armed, uniformed police and soldiers boiled out of them, heading toward the hotel. The sounds of automatic weapons fire waxed and waned; on both sides, combatants fell, but gradually those who had some idea what they were doing began to prevail. 

Inside, Daine raged and screamed; she knocked Ozorne on the head, fought her way out of her prison and raced across the city to help her friends. Outside, she wept helplessly.

Finally Ozorne pressed another button, switching from whatever private feed they had been watching to Al-Jazeera, then CNN, then the BBC World Service. All told (as far as Daine could tell) the same bizarre tale: guests at a high-end hotel, many of them delegates to an international conference on bioterrorism (much was made of this irony), had suddenly and inexplicably taken up arms and staged a (strangely inept) terrorist attack, using weapons that must have been smuggled into and hidden inside the hotel at an earlier date (much speculation on the logistics of this operation); the attack had been beaten back, at some cost of life, by the local army and police.

These highly trained men, the reports implied, had done their best to disable the "terrorists" rather than killing them; as on-the-ground reports came in, it became apparent that while casualties were many, there had been few deaths. The king of this small, impoverished country was anxious to be merciful, and had offered medical care for the wounded in the city's best hospital.

Daine's breath came a little easier, now; but she mistrusted her captor all the more for this inexplicable turn of events. She forced her head to the right, fighting against muscles that shrieked in pain, so that she could glare at him.

"It is what a peace-loving, _progressive_ leader would do, is it not?" Ozorne said.

"You set them up," she hissed between clenched teeth. "You made them do it, and then you sent your army to thrash them, and now you're playing for sympathy. What do you plan to tell the world? That they all went mad? Ate some funny couscous, or smoked the wrong hookah?"

"Oh, no," he said. "Certainly not. I shall tell them—after a thorough investigation, of course—that the attack was orchestrated by an old enemy of mine, a renegade scientist who attended the conference under false pretences in order to stir up unrest in my kingdom. It will be revealed that several neighbouring states have been conspiring with him, as well as abetting the recent terrorist campaigns along our mutual borders, and I shall request foreign financial and military aid in dealing with these threats."

Daine felt the blood drain from her face. "And you expect to be believed?" she demanded.

"There will be no question," said Ozorne. He was smiling again, his eyes cold. "The ringleader will confess, publicly, and implicate his collaborators and their governments."

"He won't."

The smile broadened. "But he will. Because if he does not, I shall torture and execute his wife."

* * *

"Have you people in the hotel?" Lindhall asked Kaddar. 

"We did have," the prince replied, "but now? I would hesitate to trust anyone who may have been exposed to … to whatever agent …"

"Ka—Azan, you must excuse me," said Zaimid. He was on his feet, ready to depart. "I will rejoin you later. I can be of more use down there, now that the shooting has stopped—they will need more doctors than there are, I am sure."

"Would you—if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to go with you," said Alanna. Numair had never heard her sound so diffident. "I have some experience in combat triage, and I'm certainly no use here—I never did find those plans."

Zaimid grinned at her. "I should be honoured," he said. And, to Numair, "Do not worry. I shall look after Dr Cooper."

Numair smiled weakly. "Alanna can look after herself," he said, "as she never tires of reminding me. Ring my mobile when you've finished," he added, to Alanna, "and we'll meet up. I'll try to reach George—he'll have heard about this by now. He may have something to tell us, and if not, at least I can let him know you're safe."

"Go." Kaddar waved a hand at them, his gaze still focused sharply on the scene below. "Do what you can, and may God go with you."

As Zaimid and Alanna made their way indoors and down to street level, the others got to their feet and took seats at an abandoned table. Kaddar's Palm Pilot blipped. "One of our people in the Palace reports seeing Daine," he said after a moment. The others leaned eagerly toward him, but he shook his head sadly. "It was hours ago," he said, still reading incoming text, "and … oh dear."

"_What?_" chorused Lindhall and Numair.

"When last seen," the prince said slowly, "she was with him, and heading toward his private research wing." He looked up, his expression bleak. "I have no people there. There _are_ no people there. No one enters but my uncle, unless he accompanies them. The doors are thumbprint-keyed, and the whole wing is two storeys below ground. If he has Daine there, I doubt that we can free her."

* * *

_Daine opens the door of the flat to find both Coopers standing in the corridor._

_"Hello," she says shyly; Alanna and George have never visited her at home before. "Em … come in. Please. Come and sit down. I'll make tea."_

_She stands aside to let them through. Griffin, Daine's large and cantankerous marmalade cat, stalks out of the kitchen and blocks their passage for a few moments, swishing his tail as he inspects the newcomers. Alanna disarms him by squatting down to scratch him behind the ears and murmuring, "You're a beauty, aren't you, laddie?"_

_They reach the sitting-room door and Alanna stops on the threshold, mouth open in surprise. "Good Lord," she says. "Is it always like this?"_

_Taken aback, Daine leans into the room to see what could possibly be the matter. It looks to her much as it always does: the mismatched second-hand furniture; the tangle of plants in the only sunny window; the cheap Ikea bookcases stacked with veterinary textbooks, cerlox-bound course kits, and mystery paperbacks; Miri's stereo and the rack of CDs surmounted by a jumbled stack of same; the trailing flex of a laptop rising over the back of the sofa on its way to the nearest wall point; the assortment of cat baskets and scratching posts –_

_"Oh," she says, reddening. "You mean the cats."_

_"Are they all yours?" George asks. He has picked his way around the obstacles to take a seat in Miri's armchair, which is shedding stuffing all down one side; its previous occupant, a grey tabby kitten, is now purring on his knee._

_"Er – not that one, actually," Daine says. "Leaper's an abandoned kitten we're fostering for the SSPCA. Her two brothers are somewhere about, but they're shy. Griffin and Spots are ours – well, mine really—"_

_"I'm sorry," says Alanna. "We didn't come to criticize your housekeeping. It's just that – well – the way you organized Numair's office and so on, I suppose I expected …"_

_Daine brightens. "Oh," she says, "that's different. I'm good at organizing, just not at housekeeping. We've only got so much time to spend on tidying things, you see, and we agreed to focus on the important bits. Laundry, and washing up, and looking after the cats. Miri cooks," she explains. "I only know how to make camping food really."_

_Alanna nods. She is still staring at something in the middle distance._

_George clears his throat. "We're sorry to drop in unannounced like this," his wife says, a little awkwardly. "We just got back from Aberdeen and we happened to be driving past …"_

_"You're a _terrible _liar, Alanna," Daine says cheerfully. "I know you must have heard the rumours. It's all right – I'm not sleeping with him, he's not taking advantage of me, I'm not after his money, and I'll still finish my degree. Sweet of you to worry, though. I'll just go and put the kettle on, and make sure Griffin isn't bullying the kittens."_

_As she leaves the room she hears George chuckling and sees—she is almost sure of it—Alanna putting out her tongue at him._

* * *

"You intrigue me, Veralidaine," Ozorne said conversationally. His hand was on her shoulder, fingers caressing. She wished hard for the freedom to jerk away and slap him; but by now, starved and sleep-deprived, she could no longer muster such resistance. He leaned closer, and her nostrils twitched: why must the man wear so much cologne? "It surprised me at first, I must confess, that Draper should put himself to the trouble of seducing such an unremarkable little sparrow. His taste runs usually to somewhat … showier plumage. Now that we know one another better, however, I begin to see … yes, you might make a very _interesting_ bedmate." The caressing hand moved from Daine's shoulder up along her throat, then tilted her chin up toward him. The speculative glint in his amber eyes revolted her. 

"But surely you realize, Veralidaine, that Draper would have tired of you before long; something else would have piqued his curiosity and you would have been tossed aside, as he has thrown off so many lovers and friends before …"

That did it. How dare he – how dare this _monster_ speak that way about Numair? A cold, silent fury Daine hadn't thought herself capable of washed over her like a frigid wave; she felt it loosen, though not release, his chemical hold on her. "Numair is my _husband_." The choked voice didn't sound like hers – scarcely sounded human. "He _loves_ me. And he's a hundred – a _thousand_ times a better man than you. He doesn't need to hurt people to prove how clever he is."

He was staring at her as she spoke, still too close for comfort – too close for safety – apparently fascinated. His arrogance, his evident assurance that even now she could do nothing to him, only stoked her fury. With agonizing slowness she raised her arm, drew it back, and aimed a slap at his face. He parried the blow, as she had known he would; but she saw something in his face that had not been there before.

"Perhaps not," she heard him murmur, "but they are hurt, all the same." And she knew the hurt he meant was not the physical blow she had attempted.

Then he reached for the syringe again, and after a moment darkness swallowed her.


	11. 10: Ransom

**A/N: **... and even longer. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! More please :)!

**Disclaimer:** My plot (kind of); Tamora Pierce's characters in my AU.

**

* * *

10: Ransom **

"He can't mean it," said Alanna. After more than two hours of triage and first aid out in the square, her hat long abandoned and her shirt and trousers spattered with drying blood, she was engaged in a rest break and whispered confabulation with Zaimid in the deserted hotel lobby. TV monitors mounted here and there on the walls continued to inform no one in particular of the latest breaking news—nearly all of it, just now, breaking only a few metres away. "It would cause an international incident. Besides which—" she paused for another long gulp of water.

"Besides which, Professor Salmalín was with all of us at the time of the incident," Zaimid finished, "and we would surely have noticed him orchestrating such an attack, had he been doing so." He swiped an arm across his damp forehead and looked at her consideringly. "Dr Cooper, just how much do you know about my friend Azan's uncle?"

"Please call me Alanna," said that lady wearily, "unless you want me to start calling you Dr Hetnim. And I thought I—well, why don't you tell me what it is I need to know?"

Under a freckling of blood spatters, a blush stained Zaimid's brown cheeks. "For present purposes, two factors are most important," he said. "First, that his grip on reality is … tenuous at times. Second, that it is difficult to change his mind once he has determined on a course of action, even one which any sensible person would regard as dangerous or foolish."

Alanna regarded the young man with narrowed eyes. "You know him well, do you?"

Zaimid sighed. "You, too, would know these things if you lived here. They are common knowledge, as is the fact that those who defy or criticize him publicly tend not to be seen alive again. Only because this little kingdom is of no great economic interest to the Western powers has … our friend … not already sparked numerous, as you say, incidents."

"You're angry."

He shook his head. "It galls me that nothing is said or done abroad when peasants starve to feed the royal treasury or brave, intelligent men and women are imprisoned and executed for speaking truth. But the true blame lies closer to home."

Alanna nodded. "You're right on both counts," she said. "What you're saying, then, is that he's crazy enough to blame all this on Numair and demand that he surrender to 'justice,' and he's unimportant enough internationally to get away with it. But—" she held up a finger— "he's forgotten something that will turn out to be important. That is, I will see that it does."

"And this is?" Zaimid was gathering up their things; it was time to return to the fray.

"Me," said Alanna. "And my husband, who has the ear of a man who has the ear of our Prime Minister—who will not be best pleased with such cavalier mistreatment of British citizens."

In spite of himself, Zaimid had to smile. "I think I begin to see why they call you 'Lioness,'" he said. "But had you perhaps not better warn your friend? If he is under threat of arrest, it will be important to keep him out of sight—and especially away from the Palace."

"It won't do any good," Alanna said ruefully, as they descended the grand marble steps, with their litter of shell casings and slime of blood—and worse. "Not when Daine's there. It'd take a whole army to keep him away. But there's always a chance that a warning will make him take sensible precautions …"

She flipped open her mobile and dialled Numair's.

_

* * *

_

_Daine climbs out of the paddock, wipes her hands on her jeans, and nods at her externship supervisor. The paddock's four occupants, who have followed her, thrust their heads over the fence; two of them lip her hair affectionately. _

"_Pimpernel," she says to the owner of the horses she has just been examining. "It grows along the fence in the northwest corner of the paddock, and Copper and Saladin, there, have been eating it. When did you say you moved them out here?"_

"_A fortnight ago," the man tells her, bemused. He turns to the senior vet, who simply raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Miss … Sarrasri, but I'm not sure how you arrived at this conclusion …?"_

_Daine rolls her eyes at her supervisor, who gives her a warning frown. Composing herself, she says patiently, "The horses told me. Shall we go and have a look?"_

_They all climb back over the fence. Saladin, a big grey gelding, leads Daine and her companions to the corner in question—a distance of some five hundred metres—where, sure enough, they find two large patches of pimpernel flourishing along the weathered fence. "You'll need to dig it up," Daine says, "and re-seed with something edible. I've told them to stop eating it, but horses do forget things when they're hungry …"_

_Copper snorts, annoyed, and Daine grins and leans against his shoulders, as casually as if he were not seventeen hands and a hundred and fifteen stone of temperamental stallion. "No need to get shirty, your highness," she says, and Copper whickers and turns his head to nuzzle her shoulder. His owner gapes at them._

"_No one seems to know quite how she does it," Daine's supervisor confides. "But it saves a great deal of time and effort, I find, to just take Daine's word for things."_

* * *

Numair shut off his mobile and turned to face Lindhall, his face bleak. He looked as though he had aged fifty years in the last five minutes. "It's as we expected," he said. "He intends to have me arrested and detained, and to force me to confess to planning and carrying out this farce of an attack." He sighed. "If I'm very lucky, perhaps he'll let me see her once before he has me shot." 

"She wouldn't like to hear you being so pessimistic," his mentor and friend reproved him gently.

"What would you have me say?" Numair retorted. "The situation doesn't exactly warrant optimism."

"He plans to force a public confession?"

Numair nodded. "As the price of Daine's life." Lindhall winced. "Not that I trust him to keep the bargain—it's much more likely that he'll execute us both—but how could I live with myself if I could have saved her and tried to save myself instead?"

"You love each other very much, you and your wife." Lindhall smiled sadly. _If only every man could have such a partner._

"Do you know what she said to me, the other night?" Numair asked him. "'I'd trust you with my life.' Daine doesn't say such things lightly, and I don't take them so. I only wonder …" he sighed. "Tell me honestly, Lindhall: if I go there, and keep him occupied for a day or so, will the cavalry arrive in time?"

"He can hardly execute you immediately," the older man replied reasonably. "You're a British citizen; there would be diplomatic outcry if he simply had you shot without trial—"

He stopped; Numair had the look of a man with a new idea. Before Lindhall could ask what it was, however, Numair's mobile rang again. He held it at arm's length and looked at it as though it might sprout teeth and bite him. Finally, looking wary, he answered it.

"Alanna," he said, sounding relieved. "Yes, we've heard … No, from a more reliable source, I'm afraid. He used Daine's mobile to ring me with a ransom demand."

There was a long pause, during which Lindhall could faintly hear Alanna's angry expostulations. "It's not so simple, I'm afraid," Numair said at last. "It isn't money he wants—it really is me. The media manhunt isn't a ruse. The man is mad, but he isn't stupid; he'll know he can wring more financial aid from a country that feels guilty for abetting a terrorist. It seems to me that the best thing is to go quietly … but not, perhaps, too quickly. I need to give our other friends time to act. Alanna, listen. You've been in touch with George?"

Another pause.

"Ring him back, will you? From a secure line, if you can. Ask him if he can involve—ah, you've thought of that, have you? Clever girl."

This time the pause was brief, but whatever was said caused Numair's dark brows to snap together in a scowl. "Absolutely not," he said. "He has Daine, and he'll kill her if I don't go along with his mad scheme. Whatever other lies he's telling, he's in dead earnest on that point, believe me. Even if the Consulate could protect me, which, frankly, I doubt, there's nothing they can do for her … Yes, of course I realize that. If you were me, could you take that risk? … Yes, _obviously_ it was rhetorical."

Another long pause.

"You know I'm not good at goodbyes, Alanna. Be safe. Keep in touch with Lindhall and the others, and if … if the worst happens …" Numair's voice faltered, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Take good care of my Daine."

Then he rang off, squared his shoulders, and addressed Lindhall: "Alanna and Zaimid will find you. Alanna will set things in motion in London, or her husband will. You'll tell his highness what is needed? Twenty-four hours will be enough time?"

Lindhall nodded wordlessly and clasped his friend's shoulder.

"I'm off, then," said Numair. He hesitated briefly, then pulled Lindhall into a brief, crushing embrace. "I hope to see you tomorrow."

"We'll be there."

* * *

When Daine next woke, she was back in her cell, huddled in the middle of the cot with arms and legs tucked under her. She sat up, blinking. As before, muscles she had been aware of only academically throbbed painfully and protested her every movement, but, she was astonished to find, she seemed now to have control of her own body. _Curiouser and curiouser_, she thought. 

She looked around, trying not to notice the smallness of the space, the way the walls seemed close enough to touch on all sides. If she let herself think about it, she knew, that would be the end. She had been sleeping, or something like it, but she felt more exhausted than before. She wondered idly what time it was—what day it was. On the floor beside the cot was a plastic tray holding two pitas, an orange, and a small bunch of grapes. Daine's mouth watered and her stomach growled, reminding her that she had not eaten since the evening before this ordeal began—who knew how long ago now? First, though … grimacing, she made use of the bucket in the corner.

_It's no worse than any latrine pit you've ever used on a camping trip_, one part of her mind argued. _But I'd never dig a latrine pit three feet from where we sleep!_ Another part retorted.

She transferred the food to the middle of the cot and used the tray to cover the bucket. Then (wishing she could wash her hands, but too hungry to care very much) she fell on the bread and fruit.

The spike in her blood sugar cleared her head a little, although she now had a raging thirst, and she felt more able to think. She had no idea how much time had passed, or what might have happened, since her last conversation with Ozorne. She was desperate to know, in particular, what her friends were doing: Had they been hurt in the attack? Had they—she shuddered—been forced to kill? Numair, at least, would still be alive, she was certain; she could not have slept long enough for Ozorne to find him, force him into that false confession, and execute him, and the "defenders" would surely have had strict orders not to kill him … _yet_. And surely Numair would not be so stupid as to walk into Ozorne's trap.

_Of course he would_, said a voice in her mind. _So would you, if the positions were reversed._

Daine thought furiously about possibilities for escape, for sabotage, for … anything. Ozorne wouldn't leave her unrestrained for very long, presumably—was perhaps not even aware that she _was_ unrestrained; if she was going to do anything, it would have to be soon. Her mobile was gone, she found, not that she could have used it in any case; she was barefoot, the restraining clips and ties had been removed from her hair, her wristwatch was gone, and … the unusual nakedness of her left hand finally registered. "Bastard!" she shouted, outraged. He had taken her wedding ring.

There was a faint sound; Daine stiffened, bracing to run. The door of the cell swung inward, and she sprang, almost without looking, to tackle the intruder. A shrill scream, quickly muffled, brought her up short. "Varice?" she said, staring in disbelief.

"Shut up!" the older woman hissed, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. "If I'm found here, he'll have us both shot. Or worse."

"I'm for the chop in any case," Daine whispered, thinking, _You're the one who screamed_. "Either that or I'll have to sleep with him, and I'd much rather die." She said it calmly, almost enjoying the look of shock on Varice's face. "And I don't recall inviting you here," she added.

"Listen," said Varice. She was twitchy and nervous—as well she might be—and, judging by her swollen, red-rimmed eyes and lack of make-up and perfume, had had other things on her mind lately than planning banquets and flirting with other women's husbands. "He's planning to—to _kill_ Arram. To blame him for—"

"You didn't risk both our lives to tell me _that_, did you?" Daine interrupted in a furious whisper. "Or that you were spying on us and reporting to your—your _handler?_" This was a guess, but the older woman's sharp intake of breath told her it was a good one."Are you planning to help me escape, or something else useful? Because if not—"

Varice grabbed her wrist, long red-painted nails—_talons—_biting into Daine's skin. "It's not my fault," she hissed. "You don't understand what it's like … but believe me, I never wanted _this_. I _loved_ Arram—I wouldn't—I had no idea _he_ was still so _obsessed_ …"

Daine made an impatient noise.

"I brought you this," Varice said, thrusting something into Daine's hand. "Someone in the kitchens gave it to me. A friend of your friend Azan Fikret." The younger woman looked down, about to protest that she didn't know an Azan Fikret, and recoiled in horror: what she was holding in her hand was a human thumb.

"It's all right," said Varice hurriedly, "it's not a real one, only a replica. But it will still work, he says."

Daine took a deep, steadying breath. "I appreciate this," she whispered. "But I don't see how I can use it. What does this … Azan Fikret say I'm to do with it?"

Varice hung her head. "We didn't discuss that," she admitted. "I asked what I could do, and there wasn't time ... I was hoping … if I let you out of here … you could use it to …" she sniffed loudly, and Daine realized that her would-be rescuer was crying.

"If you're going to let me out, we'd better get on with it," she said. "It would be better to find Numair before the silly fool turns himself in."

_

* * *

_

_Numair has proposed a field trip to the Edinburgh Zoo (incredibly, Daine has not yet been there), and the three young Coopers clamour to be allowed to go along. Their parents are doubtful, but Daine insists that it will be fun, and the children plead and promise exceptionally good behaviour; eventually Alanna capitulates. _

_On a dry but overcast Saturday, therefore, the five of them board a Lothian bus on Princes Street, Daine keeping a firm hold on Alan and Aly while Thom explains their errand (with a self-importance that makes Numair and Daine exchange grins over his head) to the conductor. Alanna has thoughtfully dressed her offspring in identical bright-purple t-shirts – "Makes it easier to spot them when they run off," she explains cheerfully. "That is … 'if', you know. 'In the unlikely event that'."_

_Once inside the Zoo grounds, the three children begin a polite but vociferous debate as to which favourite animals they will visit first, Alan arguing for the bactrian camels, Aly for the meerkats, and Thom for the tigers. Numair, mediating with inscrutable map in hand, does not immediately notice that Daine has drifted toward the sea-lion enclosure and is standing transfixed, leaning heedlessly forward over the rails. It is the animals' noise that finally alerts him, just as Aly (who has given up on the meerkats for the present) tugs urgently on the hem of his anorak and says, "Uncle Numair! Look at Daine! What's she doing?"_

_"Stay here, and _don't move,_" Numair orders the children. Crossing the intervening ground in three long strides, he grabs his student around the waist and yanks her back from the railing just as three huge sea lions surge toward it, bellowing – whether in anger or in welcome it is impossible to tell. "What the devil were you thinking?" he demands, almost shaking her in his horror of what might have happened. He hugs her so hard that she complains she can't breathe._

_This turns out, of course, to have been something of an overreaction; the enclosure is well planned and sturdily constructed, and even a very angry sea lion would present no real danger. Daine is annoyed with Numair,insisting that the animals were only being friendly, but for the rest of the day he watches her as closely as he does the eight-year-old twins, fearing that the next beast to make such "friendly" overtures will manage to do her an injury. There are many of these, as it turns out: everywhere they go, animals gravitate toward Daine, from the chipmunks and native birds that roam the grounds to the Amur tigers and the elderly rhinoceros. On the other hand, keeping track of the children is easier than expected: after the sea-lion incident, Thom, Alan and Aly stick to Daine like so many burrs, eager to see what will happen next._

_On the bus back to Haymarket station at the end of the day, while Daine and the children sing "The British Grenadiers" at the top of their lungs, to the bemusement of their fellow passengers, Numair slumps in his seat, exhausted. _

_As he and Daine hand their charges back to their father, Aly, her green eyes shining, says, "That was the most fun we've ever had at the zoo, Uncle 'Mair. Will you take us again next Saturday?"_

_"Yes, Numair, do let's!" Daine exclaims, as excited as Aly. The boys nod vigorous agreement._

_"I'm an old man," protests Numair, who is twenty-nine but, at the moment, feels ninety. "I can only handle so much excitement."_

_"Children play up a bit, did they?" George inquires._

_"_Your_ children were no trouble at all," his friend replies darkly. "Mine did her best to give me a heart attack."_

_Daine stops what she is doing and stares at Numair, looking betrayed. Before he can attempt an explanation, she has said hasty goodbyes to George and the children and hared off down the street, disappearing into the crowd of tourists and weekend shoppers._

_"You shouldn't have called her that," Aly reproaches him. "You hurt her feelings."_

* * *

They had made it as far as the kitchens before they were spotted—or, rather, Daine was, Varice having the excuse of legitimate business there: it was five o'clock in the afternoon, and preparations were in full swing for that evening's banquet in honour of the new Libyan ambassador. The plan (Daine didn't think much of it, but there was nothing much else on offer) called for Varice to distract the kitchen staff long enough for Daine to sneak out via the adjacent loading dock. Unfortunately, three of the assistant chefs had been following the King Ozorne Hotel Crisis (as the local media had dubbed the morning's events) and had seen the mug shots of Numair and Daine featured on all three of the local TV stations under the heading, in Arabic, English and French, "Terrorist Ringleaders Wanted By Police." 

Fortunately, two more were agents of Kaddar's conspiracy.

"We are friends of Azan Fikret," one of these murmured in Daine's ear as he made a show of turning out her pockets. "There is a plan. Tomorrow morning."

"Take the thumb," she replied out of the side of her mouth, before turning her face forward again to spit at another of her captors. She had begun by kicking, scratching and biting, but despite her recent meal she was still too weak, her muscles too strained and sore, to fight effectively. Still, she couldn't bring herself to submit quietly. Her surprising ally found the item in question in a pocket halfway down her trouser leg and quickly palmed it, before announcing something in Arabic that Daine assumed meant "she's clean." He showed no surprise that she should be carrying a replica of the King's thumb, and Daine wondered more than ever who this mysterious Azan Fikret would turn out to be. _I'll have to find out tomorrow,_ she thought. _Assuming I don't die._

The kitchen staff were arguing noisily, again in Arabic, apparently over what to do with Varice. Under cover of the noise, Daine whispered to her, "The zoo. Get someone to let the animals out in the morning." At Varice's incredulous look, she shook her head impatiently and hissed, "Just take my word for it, all right? It'll help."

Varice nodded slowly.

Then Daine cleared her throat and raised her voice above the arguing: "I made her do it. I threatened her – can't you see how frightened she is? You can let her go. Then you can all get on with preparing your banquet."

They stared at her, suddenly quiet. Then the man holding Varice's wrists turned her loose and she collapsed, whimpering, into the arms of the large-bosomed pastry chef.

As a whole squad of palace guards came to frogmarch Daine back to her cell, the kitchen staff went back to their preparations, more frantically now that they had lost a vital fifteen minutes.

This time, nothing was left to chance: as well as giving her another injection—the amount in the syringe was twice the last dose, she noticed with interest, just before she blacked out again—the guards shackled her wrists and ankles together and chained her to the cot.

* * *

At six-fifteen in the evening, Professor Numair Salmalín of the University of Edinburgh (a.k.a. Arram Draper, wanted terrorist mastermind) presented himself at the main gates of the Royal Palace, between the ten-foot-high statues of the King. He wore khaki trousers and a shirt that had once been crisp and white; he looked deadly tired and, all in all, much less threatening than the Palace Guard had been led to expect. 

"I'm unarmed," he said to the guardsmen who challenged him, holding up both his large hands. "I believe His Majesty is expecting me."


	12. 11: Nightmares

**A/N: **I really struggled with this chapter, particularly the last part. It's very long, but not particularly eventful ... not sure how that happened. I promise more proper plot, and a big chunk of fluffy fluff, in chapter 12!

**Daine's daughter** -- thanks :) Sorry about the cliffie, but yeah, I had to ...

**Kitty Ryan --** I told you that was inadvertant, right? 'Twas the Rogue whispering to my subconscious, I verily believe!

**maddimus3** -- thank you :) And I will.

**Tawnykit** -- they do have a plan. I'm just, um, not entirely sure what it is yet. You see how tricky it is to do this in an AU without magic? What was I thinking? ;)

**Dolphindreamer** -- hmm, I hadn't thought of doing a make-up scene ;). Daine didn't really do anything wrong, except leaning too far over the railings (and maybe getting a little too close to some other animals during the day). It's just that this is the first time he's seen her interact with really big,scary animals, and it freaks him out. Other flashbacks, set later in their relationship, show him accepting and even embracing this aspect of her life, which is part of falling in love with her :).

**Disclaimer:** See previous 10 chapters.

**

* * *

11: Nightmares**

It was past eight o'clock by the time the hotel was reopened to those few of its guests who had not been hospitalized. As soon as the police cordons came down, Kaddar, Alanna, Lindhall and Zaimid moved what Alanna had taken to calling their "command post" back into Numair and Daine's room.

"I've got everyone within reach on standby," Kaddar said at last. "Everyone who can get to the city will be ready to go in by morning. My people in the Royal Guard and the army are organizing weapons – we'll have enough for about half the civilians, which is more than I could have hoped for. Someone of ours will be on duty at the main gate beginning at seven o'clock, and as many other guardsmen as possible will be incapacitated by, er, accidental food poisoning." Alanna allowed herself a brief, vicious grin at this.

Kaddar leaned back in his chair, joints popping as he stretched his legs out and his arms above his head. Then he straightened and looked at them each in turn, his face commanding and earnest. Almost for the first time, Alanna saw what his followers must see in him. "We shall only have one chance at this," he said. "Miss Kingsford's attempt to help Daine escape was courageous, but …" he shook his head. "And those loyal to my uncle will now be more than ever on their guard."

"We must also consider the possibility," Lindhall broke in, his quiet voice grave, "that your uncle will decide to forgo even the appearance of legal proceedings. Once he has extracted the confession he wants …"

The four of them nodded grimly.

"Things are in place at my end," Alanna said. She had briefed George thoroughly, and he would make certain that people in a position to make diplomatic noise would hear the real story before any media coverage of Numair's confession reached their ears. _If only Numair and Daine were high-level politicians or some such_, she thought bitterly. _We'd have the Special Forces here already._ "We've only one agent in the place, but he'll contact yours and do what he can. And there's not a hope in hell that anyone in our government will believe any 'confessions' they see on the telly. Though I'd rather stop it happening at all," she added.

Again the others nodded their agreement.

"We'd best get some rest," Alanna said then. "It's past midnight, and we'll be up again all too soon."

* * *

_On the dresser in Daine's small, Spartan bedroom is a framed photograph of her six-year-old self with her mother—one of only a few she still possesses. It does not occur to her to show it to anyone; Numair discovers its existence only when she has 'flu and he comes to visit her, bearing out-of-season strawberries to tempt her to eat and a rare nineteenth-century book, an illustrated guide to equine anatomy, that he has recently discovered in a second-hand bookshop. While she carefully turns the pages, he looks around him._

_"She was very pretty," he remarks, studying the portrait._

_"Yes," Daine agrees. She is sitting up in bed, wrapped in blankets. "I've always wished I looked more like her."_

_The young woman in the picture—a mother at sixteen, she is only a few years older than Daine is now—has soft blonde hair and a sweetly pretty face; her full, sensitive mouth is Daine's, and her fair, translucent complexion, but her dreamy expression has none of the fierce tenacity that characterizes her daughter's. Daine's stubborn chin and the glint of wry, deadpan humour that always lurks just behind her blue-grey eyes are nowhere in evidence, either._

_"Well," Numair says consideringly, "I must say that I like you much better as you are."_

_Possibly she is blushing, but probably the flush on her cheeks is only an effect of the 'flu._

_On a chilly spring evening some four years later, the same photograph graces the mantelpiece of their chaotic sitting-room, and below it burns a cheerful log fire._

_"She was my age, in that photo," Daine says suddenly. "Can you imagine what it must have been like, to be my age, alone with a six-year-old? I don't think I ever gave Ma enough credit, you know."_

_"Well, she did a marvellous job with you, at any rate." Numair's arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her against him, and Cloud, curled in her lap, mews in protest._

_"I s'pose so." She shrugs. "Only I wish … I'd like to have some idea …"_

_"She never even _hinted _at who he was?"_

_She shakes her head. "She always said she'd tell me someday. And then … well, then it was too late."_

_"Someday." He strokes her hair. "Funny—I know someone who always says that, too."_

* * *

Daine dreamed. 

Whether because of the bizarre mixture of chemicals in her bloodstream or because sleep-deprivation and dehydration were affecting her more than she had thought, her dreams were more vivid and concrete than usual, and almost uniformly frightening.

In one dream, she slowly climbed the grassy side of Arthur's seat, holding a small, curly-headed child by each hand; ahead of them walked Numair, bearing a third, even smaller child on his broad shoulders. He turned back, laughing, and then he blurred into Ozorne and went on laughing, on a manic, rising note, as he snatched the child from his shoulders and hurled her to the ground.

The children's terrified shrieks, and her own as well, were taken up and scattered by a sudden, viciously cold wind that, gaining strength, blew both the children and Ozorne away before knocking Daine off her feet and sending her sprawling on what was no longer a grassy hillside but instead a cold, glassy floor. She was now enveloped in a darkness so absolute that even her extraordinarily good night vision could give her no other clue to her surroundings. Tensed for the worst, ears straining in the total silence, she waited. At last faint grinding and tearing noises began all around her and slowly built to a deafening crescendo; she clapped her hands to her ears, only to discover that thick, sticky liquid was pouring out between her fingers, stinging her nostrils with the unmistakable scent of blood.

Then the darkness, the noise and the blood all vanished together, in a thunderclap of silence and white light, and she was in a huge, ruined Roman arena, watching from the midst of a clamouring crowd as a man in chains – _Oh, God, Numair! –_ was led out to the centre of the packed-dirt arena floor. When he stood there alone (head bowed, arms hanging at his sides, in an attitude of utter despair) gates clanged open and half a dozen great cats – lionesses, tigers, a leopard, a jaguar – bounded toward him and circled, tails lashing, growling deep in their throats.

"Stop! Don't hurt him!" Daine shouted, as loudly as she could; but neither predators nor prey appeared to hear her. She called again and again, her voice growing hoarse, always to no avail. Finally the largest lioness tired of threatening and leaped—

And Daine felt herself falling, dropping an unimaginable distance, falling so fast that the air was pressed from her lungs and she gasped, unable to draw breath.

She fell against something wet, cold, painfully jarring – against it and through it – down, down, into frigid salt water that burned her eyes and numbed her body and fought its way into her nostrils. Heavy weights tugged at her wrists and ankles. She tried to swim, tried to kick out and push herself back to the surface, but found she had forgotten how; her mad, helpless flailing was only dragging her farther down. She opened her mouth to call for help – to call for Numair – and the water rushed in, down her throat and into her lungs, drowning her.

As if from a great distance she heard his voice, thick with some emotion she knew but could not place: _Daine … my God, vetkin, what have they done to you?_

A warm, gentle hand lay against her forehead for a moment, then cupped her cheek.

"Numair," she whispered. _He's alive. _The choking pressure on her lungs eased, and she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

For some reason, this meeting between old friends – old enemies – had none of the awkwardness of the last one, two nights earlier. Perhaps it was simply that now there was no need for any sort of pretence. 

"I'm prepared to accept your terms," Numair said flatly, before Ozorne had a chance to begin. He spoke in English; his was far more fluent and idiomatic than Ozorne's, and he could not resist this small show of superiority. "You can lock me up, and I'll confess in the morning. Provided that you let me see my wife _now_."

The king struggled only for a second to conceal his surprise; anyone who knew him less well would almost certainly not have seen the momentary widening of the amber eyes, the infinitesimal lift of the manicured brows. When he spoke, however, his voice was controlled, unpleasantly amused. "Certainly you may see her. _She_ will be in no condition to see _you_, however. Veralidaine has been … uncooperative. It was necessary to restrain her."

"If you've harmed her …" Numair's hands clenched involuntarily, bunching into fists, before he controlled himself. _No good can come of assaulting him now, no matter how much he may deserve it. _"Take me to her," he said grimly.

When the door swung open, he had to shut his lips tight against an exclamation of outrage. The cell was so small – no more than four feet by six – that he, the bucket in the corner, and the cot along one wall nearly filled it; the walls and ceiling were featureless and smooth. Numair shuddered at the thought of how it must have felt for Daine, with her dread of being caged, to wake up in such a space. But far worse …

She slept, but unquietly, struggling against her shackles, gasping for breath. Her face was bruised, her lip bloodied; deep shadows ringed her eyes.

"Daine," he choked, dropping to his knees beside the metal cot. "My God, vetkin, what have they done to you?"

He laid a trembling hand on her forehead; despite the air-conditioned chill of the place, her skin was damp with sweat, her smoky brown curls dark and matted with it. Shaking, inwardly cursing himself for bringing this on her, he smoothed clinging tendrils away from her brow and briefly stroked her cheek. Silently, as he watched her face, her battered lips formed his name. She didn't wake, but at his touch her breathing had eased, her body stilled.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he whispered, almost under his breath. "So sorry. Whatever happens … whatever happens, remember that I love you."

"How sweet adolescent love is." Ozorne's presence, almost forgotten, was rudely borne in on him by that mocking voice. "Rather pathetic in a man of your age, of course …"

Numair rose to his full height, half expecting to graze his head on the low ceiling, and favoured his captor with a cold glare. "How like you to be so unable to understand."

* * *

_"_That's _your car?" Daine asks him, arching a sardonic eyebrow. "Or did Mr Bean give you a loan of his while yours is in the shop?"_

_He can understand her amusement; the vehicle in question is, after all, a twenty-year-old Austin Mini. "It runs very well," he says defensively. "And it will certainly keep you drier than your bike."_

_He opens the left-hand door for her, but she makes no move to get into the car. "Where d'you sit to drive it—in the boot?" she asks instead._

_Numair knows her well enough by this time to recognize that something deeper is lurking behind her sarcasm. "What's the matter?" he asks kindly._

_"Nothing." She flushes a little and looks away, across the stark expanse of the underground car park. "This is kind of you, Numair, but I'd really rather take my bike. It's only a little rain—"_

_"It's a torrential downpour," he counters. "You'll be soaked to the skin before you've gone twenty feet, and everything in your bag will be ruined. Look, if you're worried about my driving—"_

_"It's not that."_

_"What is it, then? And don't say 'nothing' again, please."_

_There is a long pause._

_"I'm … a little … claustrophobic," she says at last, softly, her gaze fixed on the toes of her wellies. "I don't much like riding in cars, and this one is … it's so …"_

_"Yes, I suppose it is," he admits. "Look, em, would it help if you closed your eyes, so you couldn't see how small it is?"_

_Startled, she looks up at him. "I thought you'd laugh," she tells him._

_"Then you don't know me as well as you ought," he retorts. "Now, what do you think? Would it help?"_

_"I don't know. I've never tried it. Sometimes rolling the window all the way down makes it a little better, but …"_

_"But in this case counterproductive, obviously. Would you … do you think you could try it? It's only a short trip, and I hate to think of you out there getting drenched when I could have you home and dry in ten minutes."_

_"Only ten minutes? D'you promise?" She sounds dubious._

_"It's on my way home—I pass your street every day. Upon my honour, milady—only ten minutes." He lays a hand over his heart as he says this, the picture of melodramatic gallantry, and is rewarded with a tiny smile._

_She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and holds out her hand, letting him guide her gently into the passenger seat and buckle her in. When he has folded himself into the driving seat beside her, put on his own seatbelt, and started the engine, he turns to look at her before letting in the clutch: she is composed, her face a blank mask, but there is tension in every line of her body and she grips her rucksack with white-knuckled hands. "Ready?" he asks._

_"As I'll ever be," she says grimly._

_He narrates their trajectory as they pass familiar waypoints. At the end of the ten-minute journey, he helps her out of the car and holds a large black umbrella over them both until they reach the shelter of the stable block._

_"Thanks," she says, peering out at the rain, which is falling in sheets. "That was—thanks, Numair."_

_She stands on tiptoe and briefly kisses his cheek. Then she turns and heads for the staircase that leads to her flat and Onua's. She doesn't look back—which is fortunate, he decides when he realizes he has been standing for several minutes staring after her, his fingers against his cheek. He looks at his watch and curses: he is engaged to have drinks with a very pretty lecturer in French literature this evening, and he is already late._

* * *

Numair had thought it might be difficult to play the part of a doomed man, knowing the plans that were in the works for his rescue; but it seemed he had underestimated his own capacity for craven terror. He was not accustomed to cloak-and-dagger conspiracies and threats of death, and it was, he found, quite easy to lose confidence in Kaddar's allies, in the possibility of rescue, even—though he would rather have died than admit it to Alanna—in what George could accomplish on his and Daine's behalf. He had only to picture Daine as he had most recently seen her to feel again the same heart-stopping clutch of terror that had gripped him when he first realized where she was. 

What Numair most wanted at the moment, if he could not be with Daine, was to be alone—free to pace to the limits of his chains, or curse the air blue, or sleep, or cry, or meditate, or relive happy memories. Even just to sit in silence and _not think _for a short while would have been a blessing.

Instead, Ozorne—once finished with the state banquet he had apparently been hosting all evening—seemed determined to spend the whole night in his cell with him. _Most evil dictators would be satisfied with the certain prospect of wringing a public confession from an enemy and putting him to death,_ Numair thought rather giddily. _But Ozorne Tasikhe can't help but hang about and gloat. _Still, perhaps he could turn this tendency to his advantage.

"I don't suppose you'd tell me how you did it," he inquired, attempting a tone of casual interest, the next time there was a break in Ozorne's monologue.

Ozorne gave him a suspicious look.

"Scientific curiosity," Numair explained. "I've tried and tried to work it out, but it's beyond me." _And if I knew how it worked, perhaps I could invent a way to stop it. _"And I'm hardly likely to tell anyone your secrets, am I? After all, the next time I leave this building, I'll be dead."

There was a little more glaring, but ultimately—as Numair had suspected—the scientist-king could not resist the opportunity to display his brilliance.

"It is a chemical compound of my own invention," he said. "It harnesses the warring effects of adrenaline—fight and flight—and makes the subject incapable of responding to either, instead holding him immobilized between the two, and thus entirely open to command."

Numair nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"It is most efficiently delivered intravenously, but recently I have developed a version of the compound for airborne delivery—through the air-conditioning ducts of a large building, for example." Ozorne was clearly delighted with himself. "Of course, the effects are not so reliable or so sustained. Still, it is sufficiently effective, I think you must agree."

"How long before it kills them?"

Ozorne's shrug said this really didn't matter much. "It varies, depending on the subject, and on other factors," he said. "Long enough for most purposes."

"And the trigger?" Numair's voice sounded like someone else's, but Ozorne appeared not to notice.

"The command process is complex," was the condescending reply. "Mainly, however, it relies on pheromones and on a mechanism akin to hypnotic suggestion. It is not yet possible to control the subject's speech, but in other respects control is absolute."

"And your plan is to use this … this _process_ to terrorize your neighbours into paying you tribute, or some such?"

Ozorne waved a dismissive hand. "No, no," he said impatiently. "This was only a demonstration. Once the mechanism is perfected, I shall have buyers queuing up for such a powerful weapon. It will be a far more lucrative export than oil or diamonds."

"But what you've demonstrated," Numair pointed out, "is some bizarre plot of _mine_, is it not?"

"That," said Ozorne with a smile that would have suited a cobra to perfection, "will depend on who asks the question."

_The man is mad. Utterly, utterly mad._

"'Control is absolute,' you say," Numair remarked, belatedly seeing an opening. "And yet, you couldn't manage to control Daine—or so I presume, given the physical restraints. I can't help wondering what went wrong there."

Again Ozorne was silent for a moment, glaring. "Veralidaine appears to have a higher tolerance than other subjects of her size," he admitted at last.

"Daine isn't exactly like other people," Numair said. "I thought you'd realized that—but I see that I overestimated your perception."

Ozorne ignored this, but Numair thought he saw a twitch beginning at the corner of the older man's eye. "Tell me honestly, Arram: how much longer would she have had before you grew bored and threw her over?"

"Grew bored? _Threw_ _her over_?" Numair struggled with his anger, knowing that he and his antagonist were playing the same game. "She's my _wife_, Ozorne. Not a one-night stand."

"Come, now—I know Arram Draper better than that."

Numair sighed. "I don't doubt it. But I haven't been Arram Draper for a good many years, you see."

Ozorne's eyes narrowed. "Once a betrayer, always a betrayer," he said darkly.

"That's a _very_ interesting accusation, coming from you."

There was a pause. Numair breathed slowly and evenly, maintaining the illusion of calm; out of the corner of his eye he watched his tormentor glaring, muttering, finally collecting himself for a renewed assault.

"I must say," he began, conversationally, "I was most surprised to learn that Arram Draper, notorious for toying with the affections of beautiful women, had allowed himself to be drawn in so far as marriage. And then to find that your choice was such a woman—ill educated, without beauty—and little more than a child. I concluded that she must know some very … entertaining … tricks."

The control Numair had thought he had proved wholly unequal to such extreme provocation. Later he would think of all the calmer, more rational things he could have said, all the more reasoned and intelligent possible reactions—the words and actions of the intelligent, rational, non-violent person he usually was.

At the moment, however, he was hardly himself; he was irrationally angry, roaring with outrage at the monster who dared say such ugly things of his beloved, his beautiful, his bright and generous and industrious Daine. So it was hardly surprising that the satisfaction of seeing genuine fear in his former friend's eyes as he lunged forward—even for just a moment, before the guard at the door of the cell struck the back of his head with the butt of an automatic rifle, sending him sprawling to the floor, semi-conscious—seemed eminently worth the pain.

He retained just enough awareness, for the next few minutes, to feel the prod of a leather-shod foot in his ribs and to hear Ozorne whisper venomously, "Congratulations, _Numair Salmalín._ You have bought yourself a very painful death. As for your wife ... well, I am sure she will grow to love her new home in time ..."

_So sorry, my vetkin. All my fault. So sorry. _Finally, gratefully, he let unconsciousness engulf him.


	13. 12: Rescue

**A/N:** OK, here it is: the chapter with more plot, more fluff, and more beasties! I hope everyone likes it. It was a lot harder to write than the last one, and I'm still not sure I got all the necessary bits in.

Big thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far:) And a HUGE thank-you to whoever nominated this fic for the Circle of Heroes awards! I'm unbelievably flattered and chuffed :D

**Daine's daughter -- **but I can, if I haven't written the next chapter yet ... that's the problem with serialized fiction, I guess! (Don't worry, I _am_ going to finish the story. Pretty soon, too.)

**Tawnykit --** Thanks :). I'm so glad you thought the car flashback worked! I'm not claustrophobic myself, so I tried to work from the experiences of friends, plus my hubby's difficulties with aeroplanes. Ozorne is pretty evil, n'est-ce pas? I enjoy reading about Ozorne as a somewhat sympathetic figure, but I just can't seem to write him that way. I did try, but he just kept on being evil, so I went with it ;). All I'll say about the execution possibility is, don't worry _too _much ...

**Dolphindreamer --** Thanks :). I had fun writing the dream sequence ... well, maybe not _fun_ exactly. Dream sequences are like flashbacks for me, in that I can't seem to write anything of any length without including at least one! Great that you picked up on the "someday" thing. I tried and tried to think of what would finally make Daine say "yes," and then suddenly it hit me!

**Alanna22039** -- Thanks:) This is nearly the end, actually ...

**Palomino** -- Thanks:) I will finish it. I promise. I hate it when people abandon a good fic halfway through!

**mistywabbit** -- Thank you so much:) I've fixed the error in chapter 9, and please, please tell me if you see any more! I think you're the first person to notice (or, at least, to mention noticing) that the GPS mobile is Numair's focus. Translating small, but key, details into the modern setting is tricky, but also funfun (no, I haven't thought of a way to bring in the darkings, alas).

**Disclaimer:** Characters and bits of plot belong to Tamora Pierce. Other bits of plot and details of this AU belong to me.

**

* * *

12: Rescue**

The hour before dawn on Tuesday saw a variety of rather peculiar activities beginning in the vicinity of the Royal Palace.

On the kitchen loading dock, two young men in chefs' whites unloaded from a succession of delivery vehicles, in addition to the materials for a great many breakfasts, an impressive assortment of weapons (automatic rifles, murderous-looking knives, and businesslike nightsticks, all neatly packed in crates labelled "peaches" or "dates") and several small, suspiciously unlabelled parcels. The former were collected, a few at a time, by the unusual number of casual visitors to the kitchens that morning; the contents of the latter found their way into those dishes destined for the Palace Guard.

At the main gate, where the guard had been doubled following an escape attempt by one prisoner and an attack on His Majesty by another, four soldiers subdued the other four and tied them up beneath the staircase, and a third quartet, looking only slightly awkward in stolen uniforms, emerged from behind the statues to take their place.

In a small, bare cell somewhere under the palace, one of the above-mentioned prisoners, a dark-haired, very tall man whose clothing was very much the worse for wear, rolled from his left side to his right and woke up when he nearly fell off his too-short metal cot. He had a pounding headache, and the back of his head felt strangely damp. The hand that reached up to explore the situation (awkwardly: it was handcuffed to its partner) came away sticky with blood.

All around the high wrought-iron walls that surrounded the palace compound, people who had no obvious business gradually collected, none speaking to any of the others.

And in the grounds of the Royal Zoo, an extremely unauthorized person went quickly and quietly from cage to cage, picking all the locks.

* * *

Numair had been awake for some time—awake and fretting, as Daine might have put it—by the time the smartly dressed guardsman opened the door of his cell and thrust in a tray of food and a sheaf of papers closely covered with laser-printed text, several pages in English and several more in Arabic. 

"What's this?" he inquired.

"Your confession," the guard returned gruffly. His face looked pale, even a little green, and he seemed to be speaking with some effort. "You're to memorize it. And breakfast." He began to pull the door shut behind him.

"Wait!" Numair shouted after him. But the only sound was of someone being sick in the corridor.

Numair sniffed cautiously at the pita, the banana, and the plastic bowl of dates on the tray and decided (despite being very hungry) to give it a miss, just in case. His head still ached fiercely, and he was beginning to feel dizzy and faintly sick. _It's shock_, he realized at last, with surprising detachment. _I've had a blow to the head, and I'm going into shock. I've probably got concussion. _

That settled, he turned his attention to his "confession."

Had the circumstances been less dire, the text might have reduced him to helpless laughter; it was over-the-top, bombastic, the sort of thing that a young Arram Draper would have found terribly dramatic and impressive, and it was impossible to imagine any reasonable adult taking such a confession seriously. _With Ozorne, you never can overcome that first impression. _He considered departing from the script and simply stating the "facts" of the case, until it occurred to him that this might actually improve Ozorne's credibility_. That settles it: definitely concussion._

Two readings ought to do it, he decided, and sat back against the cinder-block wall to memorize his lines.

_

* * *

Numair and Daine are in his kitchen, washing up after a dinner party—the first they have hosted together—and it is very late. She has contrived to decline offered lifts back to her flat from the Coopers and Onua, protesting that it is unfair to leave Numair with the washing-up, and now they are alone in the house. (He wonders, but not thoroughly enough, at his—their—friends' unprecedented failure to stay and help clean up.)_

_She has had just enough wine—a glass or so—to make her cheeks glow pink. She smells very faintly of satsuma soap and chocolate. She has spent this chilly November evening surrounded by friends, talking and laughing and thinking about happy things. She is serenely cheerful and absolutely exquisite, and every so often she slides an arm about his waist for a moment or puts down her tea towel and reaches up for a brief kiss._

_He grips the edge of the sink white-knuckled, not sure how much longer he can resist her. Which he has promised himself he will do, his conscience reminds him, until she is ready: he will _not _be just another man trying to get her into bed.  
_

_Daine yawns hugely. "Listen," she says, "it's so late, I don't want to put you to the trouble of running me home—d'you mind if I just kip on your sofa?"_

_They both know perfectly well that he would never let her sleep on his ancient, lumpy sofa, which in any case is half buried in stacks of books and papers._

"_There's the spare bedroom upstairs," he says. "I'll make up the bed for you."_

"_Would you? Thanks ever so, love." She stands on tiptoe and kisses him again, quickly, then pats his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll finish up down here."_

_He trudges upstairs and searches the linen cupboard for sheets; he can hear her pottering about in the kitchen, putting away plates and silver, singing to herself. He makes up the never-used spare-room bed with shaking hands. He does not want her to sleep across the hall; but neither does he want to hear the full ugliness of common-room gossip turned on her when she becomes, in their colleagues' eyes, his latest conquest. Wrapped in the double preoccupations of research and new love, he is blissfully unaware that tongues have been wagging on this subject for many months already. Since, in fact, long before there was really any cause._

_The bed-making finished, he ducks into the bathroom to perform his bedtime ablutions, not wanting to encounter her there later._

"_All set, love," he calls down._

"_Thanks—I'll be right up," she calls back._

_He goes into his own bedroom and shuts the door firmly. Undresses, yawns, crawls into bed—alone, as has been usual for him for the past two years, though never in his adult life before. Hears her sleepy voice bidding him goodnight from across the hall, and answers as casually as he can manage._

_Sometime in the wee hours a small sound wakes him: the door of his bedroom quietly opening, and soft footsteps approaching. Blinking at her in the moonlight, he registers what she is wearing: a flannel shirt several sizes too large for her, one he vaguely remembers hanging on the coat-tree at her flat weeks ago and never seeing since. The shirttails hang to her knees. She is looking at him steadily, her expression unreadable._

_Then she lifts the covers a few inches and climbs in._

_He sits up, clutching blankets around his bare chest—as though it is a sight she has not seen dozens of times in the Uni pool. "Daine," he protests, weakly, "you shouldn't—I don't think—"_

"_You think too much," she says, smiling. And kisses him. Gently at first, her palms against his cheeks, then hungrily—greedily. Her arms go round him and his fingers tangle in her hair._

_Almost before he realizes what is happening, she has shed the too-large shirt and they are skin to skin. Dark fingers brush the milky skin along her collarbones, and she shudders._

_When, finally, his mind registers what his body already knows, he tears his mouth from hers and gasps, "Are you sure about this? Because if not—"_

"_I'm sure," she says. She is gasping, too. "I've never been so sure of anything."_

"_I love you," he whispers, holding her gaze._

"_I know," she replies. "That's why."_

_She must know the mechanics—one cannot be nineteen years old and breathing, in a university town, and not know—but he has all the experience, she only instinct. Still, it is clear to him at once that she has no intention of letting him take charge. It doesn't matter, in any case: no prior experience could have prepared him for this, for the all-consuming blend of love, desire, and desperate, overwhelming _need_ that she both provokes and satiates._

_Did he expect her to be meek or coquettish? Of course not—her practicality and her fierce determination are part of what he loves in her. She is as strong, as eager, as hungry as he. There is a moment when her body in his arms feels (against all previous evidence) impossibly fragile. He hesitates, afraid of hurting her; her voice and her hands urge him on._

_For once they both are speechless—though by no means silent._

_The next morning they both sleep through their scheduled lectures. When Numair rings his department head to apologize for his unexplained absence, his halting excuses are met with puzzlement: a colleague has already prepared and taken his lectures for the day, forewarned by an e-mail message "from your RA" about an off-campus meeting._

_When he confronts Daine with this evidence of prior intent, she smirks at him. She is dressed in clean clothes and is cleaning her teeth, in his bathroom, with her own toothbrush. While he watches her, one eyebrow raised, she spits toothpaste into the sink, rinses it, rinses her mouth. "Of course I planned it," she says at last. "A girl can only wait so long." Then, suddenly, she blushes and drops her eyes. "You don't … you don't _mind_, do you?"_

_He takes her gently by the shoulders, and she lifts her face to his._

"_What I mind," he says, his voice an amorous growl, "is these mixed signals of yours." He runs his hands from her shoulders down her arms; her eyes close, and he feels her shiver. "You've cancelled all my lectures for me, and yet" (a soft kiss on her throat, below one ear) "you've gone and put on all these _clothes_."_

_It is a few days after this that he first asks her to marry him. "Someday," she says, with an impish grin. "Provided you behave yourself."_

_A month later, she gives up to Evin her place in the flat she shares with Miri and moves herself and her modest worldly goods into Numair's house. By the end of that week, it seems to him as though she has always been there._

* * *

Daine had realized early on that her cell was thoroughly soundproofed. It must have been for this reason that when her would-be rescuers arrived, she had no warning of their coming—heard no screaming or shouting or fleeing footsteps—until the moment when she awoke to the sound of something large and heavy crashing against the door. 

While impregnable to an unarmed human being, that barrier posed little challenge to a large and determined rhinoceros. After only three charges, the door hung crazily from its upper hinges, and a smallish Indian elephant nudged it casually aside and reached in to investigate Daine with its trunk. Next the lion she had spoken with on her tour of the zoo thrust his way into the cell; sitting down at her feet, he began to wash her face with his large, rough tongue.

Shaking, she leaned down to bury her face in the musky-smelling cushion of his mane.

"I know you've come to rescue me," she said at last, raising her head to address the oddly assorted crowd straining to see her from out in the corridor—including the lion's mate, two Indian elephants, the rhino, a worried-looking pygmy hippopotamus, three chimpanzees, a kangaroo, an orang-utan, a zebra, a group of spider monkeys, a Bengal tiger, a variety of antelopes, a pair of grizzly bears, and a young female gorilla. She held up her hands to show them her shackled wrists. "Thank you—I'm so very grateful. Only—I can't leave—I can't get out of these chains."

There was a shifting in the crowd, and from the back of the group a tiny monkey—a male pygmy marmoset, she saw—leaped delicately along the backs of the larger beasts to land at last on the cot beside Daine and her lion. He jingled strangely with each leap. When finally he was still, and close enough to see, she realized why: in his tiny front paws he held a ring of keys.

"Oh, you clever little thing," Daine breathed, awestruck: even if they were the wrong keys, which seemed more than likely, it was an impressive effort.

The marmoset sat up, chittering, and offered her the keys; she took them awkwardly in her right hand and, hoisting her feet back up to the cot, began the difficult process of trying to unlock her ankles.

Before long Daine was panting and cursing and half-crying with the effort; her arms ached, and she was becoming convinced that the correct key was not to be found. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up, startled, into the dark eyes of the gorilla.

The gorilla held out her other hand and Daine wordlessly dropped the keys into her palm. After all, why not? She had seen big apes do some amazing things, after all; why not this? _It'd be a lot less strange than most of what's happened to me this week_.

So she was less surprised than she might have been when, a few minutes' worth of trial and error later, she heard a soft metallic _snick_ and felt her left hand, then her right, come free. Without thinking, she flung her arms around her saviour and hugged tight, crying, "You clever, clever girl! You're the cleverest, _bravest_ gorilla there ever was!"

After a moment, the gorilla wrapped long, strong arms about Daine's shoulders and, very gently, squeezed.

* * *

"Who let all the zoo animals out?" Kaddar demanded. His allies inside the palace were reporting odd happenings—an influx of meerkats in the kitchens, steaming piles of dung in random corridors—and it was beginning to make him rather nervous. There were, as he was now discovering, distinct disadvantages to striking while the iron was hot—not the least of which was a strong possibility of third-degree burns. 

There was a general round of shrugs and denials.

"Whoever it was was bloody brilliant," said Alanna, grinning. "They'll go straight for Daine, and confuse the hell out of everyone in the place at the same time. We couldn't have planned a better diversion if we'd worked on it for months. Much as I wish I _had_ planned it," she added.

"You believe this is a positive development, then." Kaddar still sounded dubious.

"Bloody brilliant," Alanna repeated. "Trust me."

"Right, then," said Kaddar, squaring his shoulders and taking the safety off his weapon. "Pass the signal. Here we go."

* * *

Ozorne came alone to Numair's cell, splendidly attired and white to the lips with poorly suppressed fury, muttering under his breath. He did not speak to Numair, but unlocked the chains connecting leg-irons to cot and propelled his captive out into the corridor with an iron grip on his left biceps. Every so often the younger man caught a phrase or two from the _sotto voce_ flow: _my idiot nephew's pathetic attempt at rebellion; __accursed incompetence; do they not understand what they owe to me?; should have … when the opportunity presented itself … _He was not certain whether to be frightened or amused. 

Once out of his cell, Numair made an important discovery: though the tiny rectangular room looked exactly like the one in which he had lost consciousness the night before (or had it been early this morning?), it was in a quite different part of the building, one that resembled a high-security research complex in its gleaming sterility. Searingly bright halogen pot-lights assaulted his eyes; he squinted, and focused on the floor in front of his shackled, shuffling feet.

There was a smell that did not fit these sterile surroundings. A few metres away from the cell door, Numair recognized it as the guard who had brought him his breakfast—the guard and his stomach contents, side by side on the otherwise pristine floor. His stomach heaved, and he swallowed hard.

Ozorne made a sound of disgust and shoved him forward, past this unpleasant spectacle, rather faster than Numair was currently capable of moving. "If you want me to run," he said mildly, "you'll have to give me full use of my legs."

The reply was a shove that knocked his head and upper body against the opposite wall.

After that they met nothing and no one, and Numair realized at last where he was: Ozorne's private laboratory complex, the one no one could enter without his thumbprint. He tried to consider what this meant, but found that he somehow couldn't think very well.

Their eventual destination was a thumbprint-locked chamber that resembled the "interview rooms" Numair had occasionally seen on television dramas featuring hard-bitten police detectives: formica-topped table, hard chairs, tape-recorder, large mirrored window that was obviously one-way glass. It was a little less pristine than the endless corridors, looking, in fact, as though perhaps it had more than once been used for the purpose for which it seemed to be intended. A large television camera was trained on the table and chairs.

Ozorne shoved his captive into a chair. Leaning down so that they were nose to nose, he hissed, "Remember this: Nothing you can do will save you, but you can still save her. Speak the words you were given—nothing more and nothing less. That is the agreement. If you break that agreement …"

Numair nodded—gently, so as not to knock his aching head against any of the many tables and chairs and cameras. He wished fervently that everything would stop spinning.

_Say the words. It will all be all right if I just say the words._

* * *

"You're sure you know how to use that thing?" Alanna whispered to Zaimid. Armed with elderly Kalashnikovs, they were prowling the corridors of the servants' wing, assigned to round up anyone they found there and stash them somewhere safe for the duration. Though most of the rest of the palace was filled with fighting, fleeing, or hastily concealed folk, so far they had seen no one in this wing at all. Alanna strongly suspected that Kaddar had sent them here to keep them out of the fighting. 

Zaimid's dark eyes gleamed with mischief. "All young men must do three years' military service when they reach eighteen," he whispered back. Alanna nodded. That explained more than it didn't: she'd thought Kaddar, for example, rather old to be a graduate student. "It is the only way His Majesty can maintain an army at all," Zaimid went on, "and for that reason it is a good policy. But it is also a very stupid one, because it means that even a confirmed pacifist like me is thoroughly prepared to take up arms against him."

Now Alanna shook her head, marvelling that such a short-sighted, corrupt and (she thought) _just plain stupid_ ruler had managed to stay in power so long. Then she and Zaimid heard footsteps ahead of them and froze, hugging the walls, rifle barrels trained on the turning in the corridor.

When the newcomer rounded the corner, however, both lowered their weapons: there seemed no possibility that this person could offer them any threat.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" Alanna said. "Tired of spying for His Majesty, are you? Come to turn yourself in?"

It was Varice Kingsford, looking unkempt, miserable and terrified. "Everyone's gone mad," she whimpered. "There are men with guns running about, and wild animals loose all over the palace, and …" she swayed on her feet, and Zaimid darted forward to catch her as she slumped to the floor.

Alanna sighed. "Just what we needed," she said resignedly. "Sleeping Beauty."

* * *

At eight o'clock in the morning, local time, radios and television sets all over the country, many of them strategically placed within the Royal Palace, crackled unpleasantly, and people stopped what they were doing when they heard their king begin to speak. Over the next ten minutes the story was picked up (with hastily composed subtitles) by media outlets all over the world, alerted by the same news crews who had so successfully covered the bizarre terrorist incident of the previous day. 

"Our small nation remains saddened and outraged by the violent events that took place in our capital yesterday," King Ozorne said gravely. "However, we announce with great satisfaction, and with deep gratitude to our brave and loyal law-enforcement personnel, that we have discovered and apprehended the man who, for his own evil purposes, planned and orchestrated this despicable attack on a defenceless city …"

The villain of the piece, when at length the camera panned to reveal him, looked like nothing so much as a tourist with a possibly fatal hangover. His once-white shirt was grimy, its collar stained with blood; his long black hair was lank, and a vivid bruise bloomed on his temple. He sat with his manacled hands before him on a table, staring into the camera with eyes that appeared unable to focus. Nevertheless, he took his cue and slowly, haltingly, began to speak.

All over the palace, gathered around previously unnoticed TV monitors, people watched and listened: members (old and brand-new) of Prince Kaddar's impromptu army; prisoners under guard in the main banqueting hall; a red-headed British doctor and her oddly assorted patients; and, perhaps most importantly, a pale, grubby, wild-haired young woman with a pygmy marmoset perched on her shoulder—a woman mounted on a female Indian elephant.

The bilingual confession of Arram Draper, alias Numair Salmalín, as penned by Ozorne Tasikhe and word-processed by one of his army of clerks, ought to have taken some fifteen minutes to deliver. Five minutes into the English version, however, the prisoner swayed in his seat; a trickle of blood ran down his upper lip, then flowed, then gushed; his voice trailed off, and he toppled out of view.

The girl on the elephant went white under her bruises. "_Right_," she announced, in a voice of implacable fury. "Enough hanging about. I don't care who this Azan Fikret is or what he's planning—we're going down there _now_ and get my husband—my mate—back. Walk on, Khaja."

The elephant walked. A pair of lions, a second elephant, a rhino, a pygmy hippo, three chimpanzees, two orang-utans, a zebra, a group of spider monkeys, three spotted hyenas, a Bengal tiger, several antelopes, a pair of grizzly bears, two grey kangaroos, and a gorilla followed in her wake.


	14. 13: Revolution

**A/N:** This fic just keeps getting longer and longer (it was originally supposed to be about 8 chapters -- so much for that!). This chapter seems like it might be the end, but it isn't. I think there is just one more real chapter to come, plus an epilogue, but I've been wrong before ...

Please note that everywhere in the text, but particularly in this chapter, when you see Kaddar, Zaimid,_ et al._ speaking in a more fluent or colloquial way, that almost certainly means they're speaking Arabic instead of English. It got awkward writing "in Arabic" or "in English" every time, so I decided not to bother.

Thanks for all the reviews:)

**Alanna22039** -- There won't be a sequel in the sense of another long, adventury story like this; _this_ Daine and Numair don't actually have that exciting a life, and this little incident will be enough excitement to last them for a looong time. I have been toying with the idea of a shorter fic, maybe just a one-shot, set in this AU. I'll see what happens with that idea, if it works or not.

**Dolphindreamer** -- Thanks! I really appreciate it! I agree that Numair would have made a good actor. I've also given him a photographic memory in this AU, because that seems to me like the kind of thing he would have (maybe he actually does, it's just not expressed that way in canon). It's funny how when you quote your favourite lines, they're almost always some of my favourites, too:)

**mistywabbit **-- that's so great to hear! I guess it just goes to show, if you do good research and use the results in a judicious way, you can really be convincing. I did wonder about the "radioactive beach" comment ... I just remember the beaches I went to in Aberdeen being really, really, appallingly cold! Now that you have confirmed there really _are_ houses such as the one I had envisioned, maybe I will add that little detail in a subsequent edit ;). I really, really identify with Daine. Can you tell? ;)

**Daine's daughter** -- Thanks! I will do my best :)

**jessica.schultz** -- Thanks :) I'm kind of addicted to flashbacks ...

**Tawnykit** -- Yeah, this is one of those stories where everything gets a lot worse before it gets better. the confession going awry is totally Ozorne's fault; if he hadn't been needlessly cruel to his prisoner (who was perfectly willing to confess, remember!), that wouldn't have happened. Not that anyone would have believed it anyway, of course. I wasn't going to put Zek in, but then I thought, wait -- I _love_ Zek, and he _wants _to be in the story! Don't worry, I am not planning to kill off anyone we like.

**Disclaimer:** Major characters (anybody you recognize) belong to Tamora Pierce. I invented Selim and Fouad. The plot also remains inspired by The Immortals (and a bit of PotS and TC/TQ), though at this point some of it is my own invention.

**

* * *

13: Revolution**

His Highness, Crown Prince Kaddar Gazanoi Iliniat, was upset.

Things had gone so well, for a while. His frontal assault on the Royal Palace had been spectacularly successful (thanks in large part, it must be said, to Zaimid Hetnim's inspired theft of the Royal University's entire stock of _Salmonella enteridis_ cultures, which Kaddar had then arranged to have delivered to the palace kitchens just in time for breakfast); there had been much less violence and bloodshed than he had feared—only a few deaths, and no more than a dozen serious casualties—and those of the palace's denizens who had not greeted the invaders joyfully and hurried to join their ranks were now safely under guard, having their wounds treated by Zaimid and Alanna; his forces were reporting from every wing of the vast palace complex that they had their designated areas secure. All in all, a very successful mission.

Except that the whole point had been to rescue Daine and Numair and to capture King Ozorne. The former they couldn't find; the latter, they couldn't get to. That preposterous television broadcast had told Kaddar immediately where his uncle and Numair must be, and he had taken a dozen men down to the door of the laboratory wing with all possible speed, in hopes that somehow the door might have been left open; but of course it had been locked, as always. Efforts to open it by force had failed. Then there had been the triumphant, inspiring moment when a thirteenth man, an "insider" in kitchen whites, had approached, breathless and grinning, to present Kaddar with a perfect replica of the king's right thumb. He had thought, then, that the battle was nearly over.

When it had turned out that the lock demanded both thumbprints, the prince had generously shared with his men all the inventive bad language he had recently learned from Alanna.

Now he was seriously worried: though there was no television monitor where he stood, he knew from the reports of his various lieutenants that the "confession" had ended with Numair apparently losing consciousness (or worse), which made getting to him all the more urgent but none the less impossible, and there was still no sign of Daine. Kaddar had sent a group to check the detention wing; its leader reported (sounding more than a little frightened) empty cells, and chained prisoners cowering in the remains of their cells, and extensive destruction—but no five-foot-five-inch female prisoners with curly brown hair. The one bright spot was that it was still possible to monitor what was going on in the locked wing: Ozorne had forgotten to switch the camera off.

* * *

The lions and the female hyena rode forward scout. There was little to report, however: apart from the political prisoners in the cells, the lower region of the palace appeared to have been deserted wholesale. The rhino and the elephants pulled cell doors from their hinges and knocked holes in walls, providing ample points of escape, but many of the prisoners were chained, and, of those who were free, few seemed to want to brave a corridor full of escaped wild beasts. 

Daine was anxious and impatient; she had no idea where they were going, and the time wasted in the search rubbed her nerves raw. The marmoset on her shoulder stroked her tangled hair with his tiny paw, trying to soothe her, but it did no good.

A muffled shriek up ahead made her jerk her head upright. "Stop! Come back!" she called to her scouts. "They might have guns. And I told you we don't want to hurt anyone."

There was a defiant roar, and then the three scouts came loping back—the lion looking annoyed, the hyena smug, the lioness relieved. Khaja the elephant lurched to a stop, and other beasts piled up behind her, squabbling.

"Who's there?" Daine shouted.

The reply was a barrage of Arabic in which she thought she could distinguish at least four separate voices. Then she had an idea. "Are you with Azan Fikret?" she called.

Silence from up ahead. Then, after a moment, a single, hesitant voice: "Yes. With Azan Fikret. Who is there?"

"The Beast Whisperer," Daine shouted back, on impulse. "Have you come to rescue me?"

There were hurried footsteps; two nervous-looking young men in ill-fitting Palace Guard uniforms put their heads and shoulders round the nearest corner, aiming rifles at her. The lioness snarled at them, and they jumped, one cracking his head against the other's rifle barrel.

"Stop that, Ajia," Daine scolded. "These are friends. I'd put the guns down, if I were you," she added, addressing the humans. "Ajia and Etan are a bit jumpy at the moment."

* * *

Running footsteps clattered toward Kaddar's group, and two breathless teenagers slid to a halt in front of him. "Report!" he barked, and they looked startled, stood to attention, and saluted. 

Kaddar sighed. "Stop that," he said. "You aren't in the army now. Just tell me what's going on."

"We were checking the corridors between here and the cells—"

"We were attacked by lions and hyenas—"

"Not attacked, so much as—"

"There was a girl, a girl on an elephant—"

"Many wild beasts, and—"

"Quiet!" Kaddar held up a hand and fixed the babbling teenagers with his best stern, commanding gaze. "Selim: you first. Lions, hyenas, an elephant, and a girl, yes? What did this girl look like?"

"She looked ill, Your Highness. Very pale, and with hair …" Selim mimed hair sticking out in all directions. "She spoke in English, asking if we were with Azan Fikret. We told her, yes, and Fouad asked 'Who goes there?'"

"And what did she say?" Kaddar inquired, patiently.

Selim lowered his voice dramatically. "'The Beast Whisperer,'" he said, in English.

There were more footsteps—many of them, some slow, some quicker, some ponderously heavy. The marble floor began to shake slightly. "Daine?" Kaddar called. "Daine, is that you? Are you all right?"

Selim, Fouad, and the rest of the group shrank back against the far wall as two lions and a hyena stalked around a corner twenty feet away. These were followed by—exactly as advertised—a woman on an elephant, and then by a large assortment of other miscellaneous beasts.

The men gasped as Kaddar strode forward to meet them.

"Azan Fikret, at your service," he said, bowing low.

"Hang on," said Daine's voice, far above his head. "_You're_ Azan Fikret?"

"I am." Kaddar grinned up at her, trying not to worry that three hyenas were sniffing him with great interest. "Would you come down from there? We need to talk."

Daine frowned. "We don't need to _talk_. We need to get in that door—" she gestured at it— "and rescue _my_ husband from _your _barking mad uncle."

"Well, there is a problem with the door—"

"I thought the thumb was s'pposed to take care of that."

"We thought so also. Unfortunately, it seems that both thumbs are required."

"Oh. Well, no worries. Just stand back and leave it to us."

"Daine? What is—"

"Stand back, I said." Her voice was firm, though her face was deathly pale and her hands shook. Hurriedly, Kaddar joined his men along the wall farthest from the door.

"Your Highness, what is she going to do?" someone whispered nervously.

"I've no idea," Kaddar whispered back. "But I don't really feel like arguing with her, do you?"

"Badak, you'll take care of that door for me, won't you?" Daine had turned in her seat to address an animal behind her. "Khaja, let Badak through, please."

The elephant shuffled aside, and from the crowd there emerged an immense white rhinoceros, who favoured the cowering humans with a contemptuous glance before turning to study the offending portal.

Then he charged. Once, twice, and once again before the door at last gave way, triggering a tumult of alarm sirens.

When the dust had settled a little, Kaddar realized that Khaja the elephant was now riderless: Daine had slid down from her perch and, accompanied by most of the less bulky animals, darted through the now-gaping doorway. The prince and his companions collected themselves and charged in after them.

* * *

_Daine is forty-five minutes late for their evening study session. Numair, immersed in a new issue of the _Journal of Biological Chemistry_, has scarcely noticed until he hears footsteps in the corridor and, looking up, sees a gaggle of graduate students leaving for the night. Even then he doesn't worry particularly; she has been late before._

_When she does arrive, she is dirty, dishevelled, out of breath, and empty-handed: she has forgotten to bring her books. Numair looks up at her, and his lecture on punctuality and preparation dies on his lips when he sees her face._

_"What is it?" he says instead, starting up from his seat and pulling out a chair for her, then pushing her gently into it. "Daine, you look – what's happened? Are you hurt?"_

_"Samson," she says at last, naming one of the horses she and Onua are responsible for. "A student took him out – there was a car, it was going too fast and he shied, and … we had all the Equine staff round, but—"_

_The tears spill over. Numair crouches in front of her chair and puts his arms around her, holding her tight as she quietly cries. When at last she stops, he hands her his handkerchief and perches on the edge of his desk while she blows her nose and wipes her eyes._

_"I'm sorry," she says._

_He shakes his head._

_"It was so dreadful," she goes on. "All of us trying to help, and none of us could really do anything … even the _real _vets, they know so much, but none of them could help … and poor Padrach, he blamed himself, though it can't have been his fault …"_

_"Daine," he begins hesitantly. "I hope … there are always failures, you know. No doctor can save all her patients It doesn't make the lives you _can _save any less worthwhile. I hope you won't let this discourage you from—"_

_"No." She interrupts him, vehemently, and they both look startled at her rudeness. "No, I'm not discouraged. I'm going to study even harder, so I can be a _better _vet. Only … only not tonight, if you don't mind. I'm too tired and sad to think."_

_"Of course." He nods agreement. Then, looking at her, he smiles a little. "You'll be a credit to your profession one day, my little vetkin."_

_"Your little what?" she frowns at him, suspecting mockery. "What's a 'vetkin'?"_

_"Er … nothing," he says. "Well – 'little vet,' I suppose. That's what you are, or you will be."_

_"I'm not as little as all that," she grumbles, but she looks ever so slightly less miserable. "Numair … d'you mind if I just stay for a bit, while you're working?"_

_"Not at all," he says, and as he resumes his seat and pulls a stack of undergraduate papers toward him, she curls up in her chair, watching him intently with her chin on her drawn-up knees._

_When he next looks up from his marking, he sees that she has fallen asleep._

* * *

Alanna's two-way radio crackled, and Kaddar's breathless voice said, "Dr Cooper, can you hear me?" 

Finger on the button, she barked, "Yes. What?"

"What is the situation there?"

"Anything serious we've dealt with. The rest is minor, scrapes and bumps and bruises mostly."

"Can you see what is happening down here?"

Alanna looked up at the nearest monitor and swore loudly. "Yes," she said again. "Who's up here that can show me how to get to you?"

There was a burst of static before Kaddar spoke again. "I am sending someone up to guide you," he said. "Bring Zaimid with you, and ask Professor Reed to take charge of the first-aid station for the moment. Please hurry. I think you will be needed here very soon."

* * *

Daine stopped dead, staring up and down the long white corridor, and almost wept with frustration. There were (as she remembered, now) more than a dozen doors in each direction, and all of them were exactly the same. Worse, they were all thumbprint-locked, too, and without Badak and the elephants, what chance did she have of opening any of them? 

She heard noises behind her; Kaddar, then several of his cohorts, cannoned into her from behind, to a general disgruntled growling. "What is it?" Kaddar asked her.

"I don't—" she began, but then another noise, far to the left, caught her attention, and she turned and ran, men and beasts on her heels.

Ozorne had opened the door only a fraction, and only for a moment; but it was enough. The faster of the beasts streaked past Daine and were on him before he could shut them out, leaning their weight against the door and forcing their way in.

Daine was halfway to the door when she heard it: a shout, a roar, a terrified shriek, the shockingly loud report of a firearm: _Crack. Crack_.

"_No!_" she screamed, flinging herself forward.

* * *

"Daine, wait! Stay back!" Kaddar bellowed, but to no avail. Sprinting, he reached the threshold just seconds after his quarry. There he paused for an endless five seconds to survey the scene within. 

It was a nightmare. The room was full of angry animals; in one corner a wild-eyed Ozorne, revolver in hand, struggled to extricate himself from (Kaddar shuddered) the huge, limp body of the lion; the lioness and the three hyenas, unlikely allies, surrounded the frantic king, snarling menacingly and evidently undaunted by the revolver in his hand. In the centre of the room Daine stood clutching the back of a wooden chair, weeping and hurling imprecations. In another corner, bizarrely attended by a worried-looking orang-utan, lay Numair, curled on his side as he must have fallen, blood still dripping from his nose onto the sleeve of his crimson-stained shirt. _Does that mean he'__s still alive?_ Kaddar wondered, then, _Does Daine know?_ Then he shoved these questions to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later.

Kaddar motioned to his companions to stay back, deciding that the last thing this situation needed was more spectators. He stepped forward far enough to put a hand on Daine's arm. Then, coolly, he addressed the king: "It's over, Uncle. It's over, and you've lost. Put the gun down and come quietly, and I'll ask Daine to call off the hyenas."

"Never!" Ozorne made a feeble attempt to aim the revolver at his nephew; the beasts surrounding him lunged and snarled, and he shrank back into his corner.

Kaddar sighed. "If you'd prefer I leave you to the mercy of the animals …"

"I won't call them off," Daine said suddenly. She was breathing hard, and the pulse point at her elbow hammered under Kaddar's restraining hand.

"What?" the prince turned to her, startled; she didn't speak Arabic, did she?

"That's what you told him, isn't it? That I'll call them off if he surrenders?" Close to, she looked appallingly ill—face white, eyes bruised and fever-bright, perspiration beading her forehead—but she spoke defiantly. "Well, I won't. They can do what they like with him, as far as I'm concerned—he deserves it. Etan was my _friend_, you vicious bastard!" Tears ran unheeded down her battered face.

As if in reaction to her words, the lioness surged forward and, with one huge forepaw, batted the revolver out of the king's hand. His eyes bulged with terror; for a moment Kaddar felt almost sorry for him. Then Ozorne pointed a trembling finger at Daine and grated, "_You_ dare to call _me_ that, you—you misbegotten whore?"

The moment passed.

Kaddar raised his voice slightly to order four of his men into the room; they took charge of their erstwhile king, and if they seemed to be enjoying themselves a little too much, Kaddar couldn't find it in his heart to reprimand them. "Find a cell the animals haven't been at," he said instead. "Lock him up good and tight. And don't forget to feed him. He'll need his strength for his trial."

The hyenas looked disappointed, and the prince found himself directing at them an apologetic shrug.

* * *

_Numair is waiting for Daine when she steps down onto the platform at Waverley Station, and she greets him as she always does: by dropping her belongings and hurling herself into his arms. People chuckle, and as usual someone in the crowd mocks them with a wolf-whistle, but, as usual, they don't notice._

_He is holding her a foot off the ground, face buried in the soft, faintly musky scent of her hair, when she abruptly puts both hands on his shoulders and pushes herself back. "You smell wrong," she accuses._

_"What?" he is startled. There are many joys in loving a woman who (he sometimes thinks) has more than a little of the wilds in her; but there are pitfalls, too, and it looks as though he has just found another of them._

_"You smell wrong," she repeats. She looks at him with her head on one side, suspicious but very, very vulnerable._

_"Oh." His mind runs rapidly over the possibilities, but misses the obvious one. "Perhaps the washing machine did something odd to my shirt, or I used your shampoo instead of mine, or …"_

_"It isn't that," she says. "It's something else. But never mind," she goes on, fetching a sigh. "Maybe it's just me."_

_Still, when they have collected her luggage and he slings an arm across her shoulders, she is stiff and tense._

_"Where's the car?" she asks, puzzled, when at last they reach the car park. Usually the bright-red Mini is easy to spot, but tonight it is nowhere in evidence._

_Numair laughs and shakes his head at his own stupidity. "I completely forgot to tell you," he says. "I've brought you a surprise."_

_And he leads the way to it: a second-hand black Saab convertible with the top down. "I thought you might like this one better," he explains._

_She stares at it open-mouthed. "You mean," she says, after a moment, "you bought a new car because …"_

_"I needed a new one anyway," he says hastily, as he stows her things in the boot. "This one's got more leg room in the driving seat. And bright red is so … well, I decided it was time for a change. And I thought, maybe, you might let me teach you how to drive this one."_

_Daine is still staring. "It must have cost the earth," she says. "How did you—"_

_"It didn't, actually," he reassures her. "The bloke who owned it had been trying to sell it for ages, and he'd brought his asking price a long way down. He couldn't believe he'd found someone who actually wanted to drive round Scotland in a convertible." He looks at her hesitantly, unsure, now, whether surprising her was such a good idea. "Do you like it, vetkin?"_

_She walks all round the car, her hands clasped behind her back, examining it. Then, slowly and deliberately, she opens the left-hand door and gets in. She looks back at him and grins._

_Daine has made great progress in managing her claustrophobia, but this is the first time Numair has ever seen her get into a car and look happy about it. "I love it," she says._

_Grinning back, he opens the driving-side door and climbs in next to her; she leans over the gearbox to throw her arms around him. After a moment she raises her head, her eyes dancing. "It's the _car_," she says. "You smell like the car."_

_Then she closes the distance to kiss him, and they forget they are in a car until someone honks at them ten minutes later, wanting their parking space._

* * *

Daine had lost her grip on her chair and sunk to the floor, where she curled in a heap, sobbing. Kaddar approached her cautiously, wanting to offer comfort but unsure what comfort there was to be had. 

Around them, and out in the corridor, animals bayed and howled and roared their distress.

"Daine." The voice came from behind them; Kaddar rose and turned to look, but Daine, it seemed, was too lost in her grief to hear.

Numair struggled forward, nearly falling, with an ape supporting him on either side. Only a few steps separated him from his wife, but it seemed to take an age for him to take them. "Daine," he said again, softly, as he approached her. "Sweetheart …"

She raised her head and turned to face him, now, her blue-grey eyes wide with shock. "Numair," she whispered. She put out a hand to touch him, then yanked it back as though afraid of what she would find. "I thought … I thought you were …"

"It's all right," he said, in despite of all the evidence to the contrary. "I'm fine, sweetheart. That is, I will be. Your friend … your friend took a bullet for me, vetkin. I'm so sorry."

Daine staggered to her feet. "You … you don't look dead anymore," she said, with the ghost of a smile.

"You don't either." Numair lifted a shaking hand to stroke her cheek.

Kaddar was feeling distinctly surplus to requirements.

"No, I can't be dead," Daine was saying. Her voice sounded odd. "I hurt … too much … to be …" she was gasping for breath, and her lips were blue; Numair and Kaddar both stepped toward her, hands outstretched. She collapsed against her husband's chest, and the two men exchanged horrified glances over her head.

The animals' noise redoubled.

"What the bloody hell is going on in here?" said Alanna.


	15. 14: Resolve

**A/N:** I had a _lot_ of trouble with this chapter. I'm still not all that happy with it, but it wasn't getting any better, so I'm posting it as is.

Thanks for all the reviews:)

**Tawnykit** -- I did consider that option. I didn't think Daine would want that on her conscience, though, and you're right, it's worse for him to contemplate the humiliation of standing trial. See below ;). RE: animal names, I borrowed the names of Etan and Ajia from those of a pair of lionesses at a zoo in Wisconsin, Etana and Ajia, which mean "Strong One" and "Quick One" in Swahili. (The Hebrew name "Eitan" also means "strong.") "Badak" means "rhinoceros" in Malay. "Khaja" I just made up. I am considering a sort-of-sequel, a shorter, less dramatic (possibly humourous) piece set in the same AU.

**Alanna22039** -- Yes, sorry, this is almost the end ... I have written lots more DN things that you can read, if you want (in fact, that's pretty much all I have written, in the fanfic department) ...

**mistywabbit** -- thanks! Yes, I love to do research. (I'm not actually very good at writing fantasy, b/c I like to know how things actually work before I write about them. Playing around in someone else's fantasy world is much easier!) Glad you liked the convertible bit. I also live in a climate where convertibles are totally impractical, as it snows and/or rains at least 8 months of the year, but loads of people still drive them, just 'cos we do have those 2-3 months when it's insanely hot ...

**Daine's Twin** -- Thanks :) I can't really see a way to work Kallydar into this scenario, I'm afraid. But I guess you never know. There will be a little bit of fluffyness in the next two chapters, but if you _really_ want fluff I'd advise re-reading chapter 12 ;).

**Anonymous **-- Yeah, it does seem like that. It sort of works, though, if you consider (a) that the hotel and the palace are actually quite close together, and (b) that Varice is working for Ozorne, so she has a car and driver at her disposal at this point ;). First Ozorne wants to see her so he can send her to work on Numair while Daine is out of the way; this needn't take more than a couple of minutes, probably not as long as it takes for Kaddar and Daine to change clothes. Then she drives to the hotel (10-15 minutes), accosts Numair in the pool, and Numair immediately suggests that they go do something less, er, naked ;). They drive over to the zoo (another 10-15 minutes), where Daine and Kaddar have already been wandering around for quite a while, because (a) there's a lot to see, including Daine doing her thing with the lions, and (b) it's dreadfully hot, so they're not walking very fast. Then they find D & K pretty quickly, but that's Numair's idea, not Varice's. See? ;) (So, OK, it's not perfect ... this is a first draft, really, so that's gonna be my excuse!)

**random pineappleness** -- thanks:) I'm glad you're still reading. I'm honestly quite surprised by how well this fic has gone so far, considering that, in a story based on The Immortals, I handicapped myself by eliminating not only the Gift and wild magic but also the immortals themselves ...

**Disclaimer:** Anything/Anybody you recognize is Tamora Pierce's invention. Mahal, Sayed, and the head nurse are mine. The plot ... well, you figure it out ;)

**

* * *

14: Resolve**

Alanna took over, barking orders, to everyone else's relief. Zaimid she dispatched to summon an ambulance, or whatever speedy conveyance could be mustered; two of Kaddar's soldiers were sent to fetch whoever they could find from the Royal Zoo and bring them back to deal with the animals, which seemed friendly enough at the moment but, with their intense focus on Daine, were beginning to make everyone nervous.

Kaddar himself was assigned to keep Numair away from Daine and to prevent him from injuring himself further. He soon began to suspect that the only way to do this would be to drag Numair bodily out of the room and sit on him.

"What has happened?" he whispered urgently to Alanna.

"Her heart's stopped," was the terse reply. Alanna was on her knees at Daine's side, counting chest compressions, and had little breath to spare for conversation.

Zaimid hurtled back into the room, panting. "My hospital is sending an ambulance," he announced. "Usually it could be here in five minutes, but they tell me the streets are blocked by demonstrators …"

"We'll take what we can get," said Alanna shortly. "Take over for a few minutes, please. I need to talk to Numair."

Zaimid blanched at the sight of Daine, unconscious, with the front of her t-shirt torn open, but hesitated not at all.

"Numair!" Alanna grabbed her friend's chin and twisted his head around to face her. He blinked at her, trying to focus, and she sighed. "The drug he was giving her—did you manage to find out what it was?"

He shook his head, then winced at the pain this caused. "No," he said. "I know what it _does_, but not what it _is_—"

"Tell me that, then," Alanna cut him off. "Give me _something _to go on, dammit."

As she was speaking, Numair shut his eyes tightly and pulled on the end of his still-bleeding nose. "'It harnesses the warring effects of adrenaline—fight and flight—and makes the subject incapable of responding to either, instead holding him immobilized between the two, and thus entirely open to command,'" he recited.

"Right," said Alanna. "Okay. I never thought I'd be so grateful for that photographic memory of yours."

Kaddar was looking anxiously from one of them to the other. "What does that mean?" he demanded. "What will happen to Daine?"

"I'm not sure," Alanna admitted, running a hand through her flaming hair. "I _think_ …" there was a pause. "Do you think he was dosing her continuously?" she asked Numair.

He shook his head again. "I don't know," he said. "My guess is not, since it seems she managed at least one escape attempt before he chained her up. But he also said she had 'a higher tolerance than others of her size,' which likely means he gave her more and more each time. I also believe she was given some sort of sedative or … or soporific at other times. She certainly was not sleeping naturally when I saw her."

"We will run a toxicology screen at the hospital," Zaimid panted, drawing all eyes to him and his desperate task.

"I doubt it'll find anything," Alanna said, "but yes, do that—"

"I have a theory," Numair said. He touched the back of his head gingerly; Alanna yanked his arm down. "I believe Ozorne's drug would have forced her body to over-produce adrenaline, which presumably explains how, despite having been beaten and starved half to death—"

Alanna squeezed his shoulder. "Focus on the problem at hand," she whispered.

"I think," Numair went on, "that she was functioning on adrenaline alone, and when the crisis passed …"

"You think all that artificial stimulation put a strain on her heart," Alanna nodded, "and when the stimulus was removed, the result was some kind of arrhythmia."

Numair had seemed almost like himself while theorizing, but now he was staring at his unconscious wife, his dark eyes swimming with unshed tears. Alanna had to look away from the naked desperation in his face. "Once we're out of this dungeon, I'll ring Baird," she said. "You know Baird Queenscove, don't you? This sort of thing is his speciality."

She heaved herself to her feet. "Take a rest, Zaimid," she said. "I'll relieve you."

* * *

"I will come with you," Kaddar said firmly. 

"You heard what Zaimid said," Alanna countered. "There are people marching in the streets. This country needs a leader, _your highness_¸ and you're it."

"She speaks the truth, your highness," added one of the soldiers who had accompanied them outside. "Once you begin a revolution, it is important to carry it through."

Kaddar sighed. "I will join you later," he said. "Let me know _at once_ if … if anything changes, yes?"

Alanna nodded. Then Kaddar slammed the rear doors of the ambulance on Alanna, Numair and a paramedic in a white overall and watched it hare off toward the King Muhassin Hospital, hard on the heels of the one carrying Zaimid and Daine.

Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and turned to the nearest man under his command. "Find me all the media people you can," he said. "There are some things I need to say."

* * *

_Alianne Cooper puts down an empty bucket and strips off her work gloves to wash her hands in the large utility sink. "Aunt Daine," she says diffidently, "can I ask you a question?"_

_"Of course, Aly," says her companion, stepping up to the sink to wash her own hands. It is late on Thursday afternoon, and Aly is finishing her weekly volunteer shift with the Big Cat Rescue, Daine's pet project at the Zoo. Her brothers and most of her Conté "cousins" also volunteer from time to time, or have done, but fourteen-year-old Aly is Daine's most faithful helper; she loves Aunt Daine, who is interesting and clever but never stuffy or preachy, and the lure of spending a few hours each week with _actual wild animals_ is equally irresistible._

_"It's about boys," Aly says awkwardly, as they trudge into the staff cloakroom to change clothes. "And love, and that."_

_Aunt Daine raises an eyebrow, and Aly giggles because the gesture is so like Uncle Numair's. "Are you sure it's me you should be asking?" she says dubiously. "I haven't much experience, you know."_

_"But you've got Uncle 'Mair." Aly is puzzled. "And you're married an' all."_

_"I am that," Aunt Daine acknowledges with a grin. "But I'd also never kissed a boy till I was nearly eighteen. Are you sure you hadn't rather ask someone with more … well, I don't know … like your mum?"_

_Aly shudders at the very thought. "I don't think you understand what it's like to have a mum like mine—" she begins, and then, remembering, stops abruptly and stammers, "I'm sorry, Aunt Daine, I didn't mean …"_

_"Not to worry, love."_

_"It's just …" Aly tries again. "How do you know … well … the difference between liking someone, and _liking _them, and really being in love? How do you know when you've found the right person?"_

_Aunt Daine looks thoughtful. "All good questions," she says. "I'm not sure I can really answer any of them, though."_

_"Well, just tell me how _you _knew, then," Aly persists. They are walking their bikes across the Zoo grounds, now, heading for the main gates._

_The older woman smiles a little, as though at a private joke. "Now there's __a question I _really _can't answer," she says. "You might as well ask how I know the sky is blue, or how I know how to breathe."_

_Aly sighs, and her aunt puts an arm around her shoulders. "The right person's out there somewhere, Aly. You'll know."_

* * *

"I understand how unexpected and frightening the past two days have been," Kaddar said. He had been speaking, and answering questions, for nearly half an hour; there were only a few things left to say, but they were vital ones. "I'm not sure yet exactly what has happened, or why, or how, but a full investigation of yesterday's attack will begin immediately, and when I know, you will know. As I have already said, my uncle will stand trial for his actions, and the trial will be open and public." 

He paused. "I will do my best to be a good, fair, and just ruler of this country. I appeal to every citizen, male and female, young and old, to help me rebuild what has been damaged and destroyed, for all our sakes."

"Long live King Kaddar!" yelled someone in the crowd, and other voices took up the cry until the whole palace forecourt rang with it.

"Please don't," he said. "I haven't done anything yet. I'm not even _king _yet."

But, out in the courtyard, no one heard him.

* * *

"George, you should have seen it," Alanna said. She was curled comfortably in a padded chair, strategically placed just outside the door of Numair's hospital room, where she would hear him if he woke. Lindhall, who had taken the last shift, sprawled along a sofa across the hall, snoring slightly. 

"I did see it, lass," her husband reminded her. "Most of the world did."

"Not the way I saw it," she retorted. "Not to mention _smelled _it. Wild beasts all over the shop, George, and—"

"And riotin' in the streets," George said. "Your young prince gave a very inspirin' speech, or so they tell me—Arabic not bein' one of my languages. There's talk at Number 10 of restoring diplomatic relations. How are our two? Wee Aly's right worried about all of you, you know," he added, a little reproachfully.

Alanna sighed. "I'm fine. Numair's fine—dehydrated, and took some nasty knocks to the head, but nothing that won't mend. He's sleeping. Daine … I'm a bit concerned about Daine," she confessed.

George heard the worry in her voice—and the utter exhaustion. "Get some sleep, lass," he advised. "You can get back to savin' the world in the mornin'."

* * *

_The College of Medicine and Veterinary Medicine hosts a gala Christmas party for all its staff, academic and otherwise, and Daine (who doesn't want to go at all) reluctantly allows Lady Thayet, her self-appointed patroness, to persuade her into an elegant frock. She is feelings like a gawky child in fancy dress when Numair, stopping to speak to her on his way from dance floor to buffet table, looks at her with eyebrows raised and says, _"You _look very pretty!"_

_"Me?" she protests, disbelieving. "You're putting me on."_

_"Yes, you," he insists. "You may not look like a film star, Daine, but you do have your own … something. Before I know it, you'll be grown up and qualified and off to start a practice with some worthy young man in your year. In the mean time …" He grins suddenly, and gives her a courtly bow, which (as always) makes her giggle. "Would you care to dance, milady?"_

_Daine is about to refuse, to tell him that she doesn't know how to dance or that he doesn't want to be seen dancing with the likes of her, but he is holding out a hand and the band is playing something cheery by Noël Coward and before she can say anything at all she is, in fact, dancing with her teacher and friend, astonished to discover that it is great fun._

_She grins up at Numair, and he smiles back, and at that moment she begins at last to shake the dust of Snowsdale from her feet._

* * *

"I want to see her." 

"She's in Intensive Care. They don't allow visitors."

"I'm not a visitor, I'm her _husband_. I want to see her."

"I understand that, Numair. This isn't my hospital. I can't change the rules for you."

"Then find someone who can. I want—I _need _to see her. Please, Alanna."

"I really don't think—"

_"Please.__"_

* * *

"Numair, it's—" 

"Leave me alone, Alanna. Just – go away."

Alanna fought the urge to slap her friend, hard, and instead took his arm firmly and pulled him around to face her, away from the window. "It's not as bad as it looks," she said.

"How—" Numair took a deep breath, visibly containing himself. "How exactly is it not as bad as it looks? It _looks _as though she's still unconscious after three days. It _looks _as though she's on life support. Do my eyes deceive me?"

"Well, no," Alanna admitted.

"And I'm supposed to stand out here and feel _reassured_?"

She winced at his tone. _He'll be bursting into flame next._

"Look," she said. "We've done all we can for her. She's stable. Her heart is doing what it's meant to do, which is the main thing. I'm not shielding you from the truth, Numair, I'm telling you all I know. Her body's been assaulted and insulted, and it needs time to heal. You slept more than two days yourself, remember. You came out of it, and so will Daine."

As she spoke, Numair's anger had evaporated; now he slumped against the wall, looking miserable. "This is all my—"

"_No more wallowing_." Alanna cut him off in mid-sentence. "It won't help you and it _certainly _won't help Daine. Now, listen to me, my lad."

He assumed an attentive expression.

"I've persuaded the ward sister to let you in, on condition that you behave yourself and do _exactly _what the nice nurses and doctors tell you. You are not to pester the staff. You are not to climb onto the bed—" at his expression of injured dignity, she folded her arms and stared him down: "I _know _you, Numair. You are to eat and rest when told, and you are not to tell Daine _anything _that might upset her. If anyone catches you breaking any of those rules, you will be thrown out straight away and _not _allowed back in. Do I make myself clear?"

A nod of the bandaged head, then a wince: "I've _got _to stop doing that," he muttered. Then, more loudly: "Yes, Colonel Cooper. Crystal clear."

Satisfied, Alanna nodded at the ward sister, who had stood discreetly at the other end of the corridor throughout this exchange. This crisply white-clad personage approached silently, fixed Numair with a forbidding stare, and at last let them both into Daine's room.

Alanna watched from the doorway as Numair took the three steps to his wife's bedside on legs that still shook a little. Someone had thoughtfully placed a chair beside the bed, but instead of sitting in it he dropped to his knees, clasping Daine's hand in his and resting his other arm across her body and his head against her blanket-covered hip.

Fortunately for Numair, the _whoosh _of the ventilator and the steady _blip _of the cardiac monitor prevented Alanna from hearing his whispered words: "Don't you _dare _die on me, vetkin. If you do, I swear by all that's holy, I will drop you into the deepest crevasse in the biggest glacier in Norway and _seal you in_."

* * *

Kaddar, Zaimid, and a brace of sympathetic palace clerks had spent the better part of the night methodically ransacking their deposed king's files, paper and electronic, private and more private, and were growing weary of the exercise. Thus far they had found much that was unpleasant, frightening, or repellent, but nothing remotely useful to the two urgent matters at hand: which of the prisoners in the detention wing, if any, were genuinely dangerous and would need to be detained; and exactly what Ozorne had dosed Daine and the hotel guests with. 

At roughly two o'clock in the morning, one of the clerks, Mahal, finished decrypting a very large file and, when text and images began filling the computer screen in front of him, sat back with a gasp. "Your high—your majesty," he said, "I think you'd better come see this."

Kaddar read over Mahal's shoulder with growing disbelief. When, after several minutes, he began to laugh, the other three men looked at him as though he had grown an extra head.

"With respect, your majesty …" said Mahal.

"Care to share the joke?" Zaimid asked, from across the room, where he was half hidden by ribbon-bound file boxes.

"My uncle," Kaddar replied, eyes glinting with suppressed mirth, "has been keeping a whole file on my subversive activities. He was planning to have me arrested and charged with conspiring against him."

"I fail to see the humour in that," said his friend dryly, "since in fact that's exactly what you _were _doing."

"Well, come and read for yourself," Kaddar invited. "Once you've seen the details, I'm sure you'll see what I mean."

Frowning, Zaimid made his way over to Mahal's monitor; Sayed, the other clerk, abandoned his laptop to trail after him. The four of them read on, in silence punctuated by snorts of amusement, for several more minutes before Zaimid, shaking his head, looked at Kaddar and said, "He had no idea."

"Exactly," Kaddar grinned. "Everything in this file is a figment of his imagination, and he got all of it wrong. I mean, look at this, Zaimid. Bribing members of the Army officer corps with illegally obtained American dollars? Trying to buy weapons from—what does that say—_Uzbekistan?_ Oh, and this is the best bit." He had had very little sleep in the last twenty-four hours, and was beginning to feel giddy. "I'm supposed to have been plotting that mess at the hotel with 'Arram Draper' for the past year. Let me guess—" He rummaged in a pocket and extracted a crumpled, blood-spattered sheaf of papers, which he studied for a moment. "Yes, there it is. Numair was supposed to implicate me as part of his confession. It must have boggled his mind to discover that I actually _was _conspiring against him."

"Kaddar," Zaimid said soberly, "you do realize what this means, don't you? After he executed Professor Salmalín, you were going to be next."

The prince—the king—looked at his oldest friend and nodded. "I have Daine and her friends to thank that I'm still alive," he said. "Don't worry—I'm in no danger of forgetting it." He sighed, rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes, looked around at his confederates. "Let's keep looking."

Fifteen minutes later, the four of them looked up, startled and shaken, at the sound of a muffled explosion somewhere beneath their feet.

* * *

They waded through the rubble, arms across their faces in a vain effort to keep the choking dust out of their lungs—Kaddar in the lead, Zaimid a few steps behind him. They had been unable to get any coherent account of events from the variety half-hysterical soldiers and erstwhile prisoners they had encountered on the way here; the only thing to do, clearly, was to go and see for themselves. 

There was very little left to see.

"How," Kaddar demanded, his voice muffled by his sleeve, "how the _hell_ did he manage to do this?"

"Maybe it wasn't him," Zaimid suggested reasonably. "Any number of people might have wanted to blow him up."

"Look around you. _Obviously_ the blasts were centred inside the cells."

"Oh." Looking around, taking in the vaguely discernible pattern of the debris. "Right."

Going more cautiously as they neared their goal, they smelled the charred fragments of flesh and bone before they saw them. Soon they were everywhere, and the two friends had to halt to avoid treading on the remains of their former king. "He couldn't just poison himself," Kaddar complained, his voice shaking.

"At least he didn't manage to take anyone else with him," Zaimid pointed out, "though I can't say he didn't try. Come on—there's nothing we can do here. We'd better go and try to calm them all down."

Much later, during the process of renovating the detention wing of the palace to house more voluntary guests, Kaddar's construction crews would discover the small explosive charges embedded in the walls of every cell, wired for a remote trigger that, according to his personal journal, King Ozorne had carried with him at all times.


	16. Epilogue

**A/N:** ... and the end. Thanks for reading, everyone! You've been so great and encouraging:)

**mistywabbit** -- Thanks so much :) That phone conversation between George and Alanna was fun to write, and so was Alanna lecturing Numair (I always think of them as having kind of an older sister/younger brother relationship). It took me ages to work out what to do with Ozorne ... more bad science I'm sure, but hey, whatever works ;)

**Tawnykit** -- Thanks :) I am still working on the maybe-sequel in my head. We'll see. Here it is, the wrap-up ...

**Alanna22039 **&** kaypgirl -- **Thanks:)

**Daine's daughter** -- Thank you :) Almost the end -- just the Epilogue to go, and here it is!

**Dolphindreamer** **-- **Wow, two reviews! Thank you:) I didn't really manage to work Baird in any further, unfortunately. Maybe in another story. I'm glad you liked the food poisoning; I stole it from TQ, but I had already stolen Zaimid from there, so I thought, hey, why not ;). The glacier threat took me ages to get right, but I really wanted to put it in there somewhere -- Numair's outrageous threats always make me laugh! Please note: the country in this fic is NOT Egypt (I never say what it is called, because I couldn't think of a good name. In my head I call it "Tasikhestan", but "-stan" is wrong for the region I want it to be in, so that doesn't work. Maybe I should call it "Qart'aq"?). I did think of Egypt at first, because Carthak is so clearly based on ancient Egypt, but Egypt is a democratic republic, so that just wouldn't work. And then it occurred to me that really, if I was going to make this country such an unholy mess, I'd better also make it fictional ;).

**Silverlake **-- Thank you! Look at me blushing:)

**Disclaimer: **Any character, situation, or line of dialogue you recognize is not mine but belongs to Tamora Pierce.

**

* * *

Epilogue **

_Daine opens her eyes on a darkened room, and for a moment she is terribly afraid. Then other things begin to register, making the fear fade into puzzlement. First she notices the smell: clinical and antiseptic, but overlaid with the mingled scents of roses and lilies, tulips and chrysanthemums and freesias, like a florist's refrigerator. Then the quality of the light, the stripes of moonlight lying across the wall like the shadows cast by venetian blinds. Wherever she is, then, it has windows. She is no longer underground._

_There is a faint electronic hum; she tries to look around for its source, but finds her head is held in place by … something. Panic surges again, and she feels her heart hammering frantically against her ribs; trying to breathe slowly to calm herself, she becomes aware of an unpleasant choking sensation and of something cold and rigid filling her mouth and throat. From somewhere to her left she hears a shrill beeping. To the right, the sound of a chair overturning, followed by a muffled curse._

_She tries to speak, and chokes again. Frantic, she squeezes her eyes shut against a rush of tears._

"_Daine!" the voice is familiar, beloved. A large, warm hand clasps hers; another covers her forehead, smoothes her hair. "Sweetheart, it's all right. You're in hospital—you've got a breathing tube in, that's why you feel so strange." In the dim light, Numair's face, patterned with old bruises, swims into view; he sees the question in her eyes and answers it: "Your heart stopped. You—"_

_A nurse bustles in, followed by a handsome young doctor who smiles at her as if he knows her, though she is sure he doesn't. The nurse lifts Daine's other hand and presses cool fingers against the pulse point at her wrist. The frantic beeping stops._

_They tell her to close her eyes and cough, and when she opens her eyes again the breathing tube is gone and she can breathe normally again, though her throat is raw and her mouth achingly dry. She inhales, which triggers a fit of coughing. When she tries (again) to speak, what comes out is a croak._

_Numair cradles her head and holds a cup to her mouth; cool water laps at her parched lips, and she sips gratefully._

_She squints at him, trying to work out why he looks so strange. Finally it hits her: "What happened to your hair?" she croaks._

_He laughs and laughs, and, though she doesn't understand what he thinks is funny, she has never heard a more welcome sound._

"_I'm not going to die, then?" she asks him._

"_No, sweetheart," he replies. His voice is tender, his hands gentle as he strokes her hair, her cheek, her hand. "You're going to be fine."_

"_How long have I been asleep?"_

"_Not asleep—unconscious. Four days." She frowns, sceptical. "Yes, really. And look, your favourite prince has sent you flowers." Indicating several extravagant bouquets tidily lined up on the windowsill, as far as possible from her bed. "And here are some from George and the children, and some from the Contés—"_

"_Kaddar sent me flowers? Shouldn't _we_ be thanking _him_?"_

"_You didn't get to hear all of my confession, love. It turns out that Kaddar was in on my plan all along, and Ozorne was going to have him arrested and executed for treason. He owes his life to you—well, you and your four-legged friends."_

_She remembers Etan the lion, and has to hold down a sob. He squeezes her hand. "So do I, come to that. That's twice you've snatched me from the jaws of death, vetkin. We must do something about that. I shouldn't like it to become a regular feature of our relationship."_

_With some effort, Daine focuses her eyes to glare at her husband. "I__'__m so glad to see you've kept your sense of humour," she says tartly. "Just imagine how worried I'd be if you hadn't."_

* * *

_"There's something else I need to tell you," he begins, hesitantly._

_"Mm?"_

_"About Ozorne."_

_She sits up a little straighter, frowns. "Don't tell me he's walked free somehow."_

_About to shake his head, he thinks better of it and says, "No." He thinks a little more about how to say what he has to say, finally deciding just to say it: "He's dead. He ... blew himself up, after they put him in the cells. They, em, they only found bits ..."_

_She puts a hand to her mouth._

_"Sweetheart? Are you all right?" he asks anxiously._

_She nods. "He's dead," she says, in a curiously emotionless tone._

_Forgetting again, he nods in return, then winces._

_"Good."_

* * *

"_So you've got your work cut out for you, then," Daine remarks. She is toying absently with the wedding ring Kaddar has just returned to her, deciding not to ask where or how he found it._

_Kaddar nods ruefully. "And the senior ministers and advisors are insisting on a formal coronation ceremony before we can really begin."_

"_And when does this great event take place?"_

"_Early next month. I … I wish you could be there."_

"_I don't," Numair mutters, from her other side. Daine gives him a quelling look._

"_I meant what I said earlier, Daine," Kaddar goes on. "I owe my life to you, and I am anxious to repay the debt. If there is anything—anything at all—"_

"_What's going to happen to the animals from the Royal Zoo?" she asks. "And the birds from the aviary?"_

_He looks surprised. "I had not thought," he admits. "I would welcome your advice."_

"_I don't want them to stay there," Daine says. "They aren't happy, and they deserve better, especially after everything they did for me—for all of us. I'd like someone to get in touch with some people I know at other zoos—_proper_ zoos, begging your majesty's pardon—and see what arrangements they can make. And Ajia, the lioness, and the hyenas and the rhino—they were all captured in the wild, poached really. They should go back." _

"_Of course, if you wish it," Kaddar replies, not asking where she acquired this last bit of information._

"_And …" she hesitates, glancing at Numair, then at Alanna and Lindhall, who have come out into the hospital's courtyard to join them in the sun._

"_What is it?"_

"_Miss Kingsford. Varice," she begins. "What's going to happen to her?"_

"_She will stand trial, I suppose," Kaddar says thoughtfully. "With others who spied for my uncle. Now that he is dead, people will be looking for someone else to punish. And if we do not take care, there are those who would turn him into a martyr. Everything he did, everything he was, must come out." A pause. "Why do you ask?"_

"_She … she helped me, or she tried. It wasn't her fault she was no good at it." Daine sounds a little defensive. "It was her I told to let the animals out, and someone did let them out, though I doubt she did it herself. She didn't know what Ozorne was planning."_

_Numair is staring open-mouthed; this is the first he has heard of any of this, and it is a difficult idea to comprehend._

"_I suppose … I s'ppose I was hoping you could grant her clemency, or whatever the proper thing is," Daine concludes, pink-faced._

"_I will make sure that that part of her story is heard," Kaddar assures her. "That is as much as I can do, but perhaps it will be enough." He looks at Daine, a smile tugging at his lips. "So much for others, and nothing for yourself?" he asks gently._

"_Oh, I don't need anything," she replies cheerfully. "I'm alive, and so's __'__Mair, and we_'_re all gonig home. I've got all I need. Were you going to offer me money, or a medal, or something?"_

_Kaddar nods, a bit abashed. "Well, spend it on something more sensible," she admonishes him. "Famine relief. Sustainable agriculture. What about your idea for drought-resistant crop plants?"_

_He brightens, pleased that she remembers this. "I knew that you would give me good advice."_

_

* * *

The cavernous military plane is a noisy and inelegant conveyance, but it is taking them home, for which relief they give thanks. Alanna (who is used to this sort of flight) dozes in her fold-out seat; Numair, his arm around Daine, looks over her curly head at the odd miscellany of the cabin, imagining the night sky outside._

_She stirs against him, and he looks down at her; she blinks, sleepy, and he feels in memory those long, long lashes brushing his cheek._

"_It's good to be going home," she murmurs. "I was a bit worried we wouldn't be."_

_He chuckles at her understatement, and she sits up a little and raises her head to look at him. The ugly bruises on her face are fading, but she still looks exhausted and abused, and no doubt he looks the same._

_He kisses her gently, his free hand cradling her cheek._

_They are neither of them given to flowery declarations, nor will they ever be; but the shock of nearly losing her has shaken something loose in him._

"_Oh, my vetkin," he sighs, blissfully, gazing down at her with dreamy eyes. "Have you always been so beautiful?"_

_Daine's answering snort of laughter ruins the effect but reminds him forcefully why she and no other is the companion of his heart. "Have _you _always been so _silly?"_ she demands. _"Honestly_, Numair."_


End file.
